Requiem for the King
by akikos-wok
Summary: Gravely wounded, King Delita reminisces on how his life has come to pass and begins to wonder if all he has is really enough. Rated for language and adult content. And yes this is a Delita/Ramza tale.
1. Chapter 1

**Requiem for the King**

By: akikos_wok

**Disclaimer: **Everything belongs to Square-Enix!

**Warnings: **Some strong language, a half-hearted attempt at Olde English, and some borderline explicit Delita/Ramza lovin'.

**Summary: **Gravely wounded, King Delita wonders at how his life has come to pass and if all he has is really enough. Rated for language and adult content.

* * *

**Part- I**

Her death was swift and clean. She didn't even shudder as the blade slew her, let alone cry out. Just a perfectly aimed thrust through the heart and she collapsed dead. By the time she fell forward into his arms she was already gone. Death was instantaneous, free of gasping final breaths, devoid of realization that life was at an end, no hint of struggle. It truly was a testament to how loose her grip on life had grown.

He was not sure _why_ she was dead, but he was certain that he killed her. It was a reflex. She stabbed him so he stabbed back. Yet it was much more that, for he was aware that he had wrenched the dagger that slew her from his own body and made the conscious decision to kill her. He needn't have done so, for her aim was poor and his injuries probably treatable; it was unlikely that the meek and gentle queen could have conjured up enough malice to deal him a second blow. He might have just let her be, let her realize what she'd done as his blood soaked the grass, and stained crimson the grounds of the ruined church. It would have driven her mad, probably. Then she would be committed to an asylum for insanity and attempted murder of the King of Ivalice.

Unless it did not. She might have remained perfectly sane and struck again, this time killing him or worse yet not striking, the people would sympathize with her fears that she was a mere pawn in his plan and then they would drive him to ruin, revoking his crown, returning him to the vermin from whence he came, resigned to live forever in the shadow of his fleeting rise to greatness. No, that could never be, and that was why she had to die. People loved her and trusted her, the poor abused princess, rescued finally from a life of constant suffering for the advancement of others by a common boy, who raised her up above the ashes of a fallen kingdom to be become queen of a brighter future. But it could not have been just any princess. It had to be Ovelia. Had it been a princess who'd had enough sense to stand up for herself, the people would never have been so willing to accept him as the all benevolent hero they though him to be.

She had to die because they would have believed her. And unstable as Ovelia was, she was not insane. Even the people's all good and righteous hero could not convince them of that.

Again he remembered: she was dead and he killed her. The murder weapon lay shamelessly by her golden head, now facedown on the earth and framed with a halo of discarded flowers intended as a birthday gift. There was no way of concealing it. He was too weak to take it and run, and how could he possibly run away from everything he had worked so hard acquire?

But someone would discover them soon and he had to have a story. His mind swam and found only one possible solution: it was suicide.

He fought against gravity's venture to drag his body to the ground and half-stumbled, half-crawled over to the queen's fallen frame. He took the dagger from where it lay and held it level with the wound the dead girl had dealt him, calculating how the weapon might have fallen had he inflicted it himself. Satisfied with a position, he flung the dagger to the ground and let himself fall with it.

He was surprised how good it felt to lie there, to just surrender to the aches of his exhausted body and let it rest. But even as his body rested, his mind was ever scheming.

She'd killed herself. He didn't know why she'd done it, but she was already dead when he arrived. Stricken with grief, he took that self-same dagger that she had used to end her life and attempted to end his own. But, being so wild with grief, he was unable to stay his aim and he missed his heart.

It was a good story. Ovelia had always been a tragic figure. Who was to say that she would ever really be able to cope with a life of stability and contentment? Perhaps she ended her life out of fear that her happiness would not last and she would find herself used and discarded as always. He did not know, but it sounded plausible enough, and would sound even more plausible coming from her distraught and potentially dying husband, who had endeavored to kill himself that he might join his beloved.

He laughed at his cleverness, began to cough and tasted the unmistakable tang of blood on his lips, felt its eerie warmth on his chin. She must have grazed his lung. Perhaps she would succeed in killing him after all.

"Lord Delita!" cried a horrified voice, but his mind was beginning to wander and he could not tell for certain to whom it belonged.

Perhaps it was in the stead of panic that his thoughts began to drift. He was dying but refusing to acknowledge it. Whilst his life's blood continued to seep from him and quench the thirsty earth, he was ten years in the past, laughing as his sweet little Tietra stood up, dripping with mud and fury, after face-planting during a game of tag in the rain. Then he was watching she and Alma, still beaming and joyful in the last days of summer, being loaded into a carriage along with most of their belongings, as they were sent away to school for the first time. Now she was home, her arms flung about his neck in congratulations for his own impending departure to the Akademy, but his eyes did not see her, for they focused elsewhere.

As darkness overtook him, his mind was consumed with only one thought: Ramza. How had he fared in all of this?

"Your majesty!" the voice cried again but to Delita's ears it sounded far away, though he was certain its owner nigh hovered over him now.

But he could fight no longer and surrendered to darkness and the image of a hardened hero, a shadow of a boy he'd known in years long past.

---

It was summer. In a few more days autumn would rear her fair and fickle head and once again separate him from his beloved little sister. Only this time he too would be leaving Eagrosse. He hoped it might ease the blow of their parting; it was always painful but he thought, perhaps, knowing that Delita would not be at home would make Tietra less loathe to leave it. Perhaps he would also find it easier to be without her in a place where they had never been together. But for now he would let it be summer and try to forget the impending autumn winds that would carry him away from the only place he'd ever called home.

It had been a cruel summer, its advent heralded by the death of Lord Barbaneth, a man who'd bestowed every luxury and generosity he could upon the common-born Heiral children. Barbaneth's younger children had spent the first few weeks of summer in virtual seclusion as they mourned their father's death. Delita was certain that, in that dark time, he was the only person who saw Ramza aside from his servants who no doubt were force-feeding him and insisting he take some exercise. But Ramza never denied Delita's company, and it was from the youngest Beoulve son that Delita learned that Barbaneth had arranged for him to enter the Akademy in the fall, an act very likely provoked by his failing health. Barbaneth was so very fond of his youngest son, and perpetually suspicious of the aristocracy's meddling with him.

As he rightfully should have been, for a season away at school had made no dent in Ramza's naïveté. He needed someone he could trust, someone who hadn't spent his whole life squandering money and making personal conquests. He needed someone he knew, and that person was Delita. Saddened though he was by Barbaneth's passing, Delita was grateful his imminent death had made the man see his worth.

Now the summer's end drew nigh, Barbaneth's children smiled again, and each day was filled with more and more preparations for the departure of four of Eagrosse's children, suddenly grown into adults.

The day was radiant. They'd gone out to the river for an afternoon swim and, having grown tired of struggling against the fearsome current, Delita rested on a blanket, basking in the rays of the soon setting sun. As it threatened to begin its descent beyond the horizon, the sun tinted amber everything that it touched, rendering all things, already beautiful for being drunk on the habitual joy of summer, that much more lovely to behold. It brightened the yellow undertones in the leaves about to turn, made golden the stalks of wheat in the distant fields, danced upon the water and gave warmth to the river's flow. It softened the redness in Tietra's flushed and tired cheeks, making them seem a perfect, bronzed rose, and it veritably sparkled as it played in Alma's thick, yellow hair. Golden Alma was particularly striking, the soft amber not only complimenting her hair, but her skin, and lips and well. Every inch of her seemed to soak up the light then radiate it back out through her pores. But stunning as Alma was this day, she was merely pretty in comparison to her brother.

Ramza still played in the river. His skin would probably look blue by now if it weren't for the sun painting it a healthy tanned hue. The water was not freezing, but neither was it warm, and Ramza had been in near two hours uninterrupted. He stood in shallow depths, the current racing by his ankles, his thin layers of linen undergarments clinging to his damp skin. He poked idly at the rocky floor, perhaps looking to unearth some tadpoles, unaware of how his friend watched him.

Half naked and doused in sunlight, Delita could not see how anyone could deny that Ramza was the fairest of the Beoulve children. Alma was lovely indeed with her round face and thick plumes of hair, but hers was a very soft, human loveliness, while Ramza was a work of art. His was a slender, angular frame and a chiseled look that carried throughout his every feature. His cheekbones were high, his legs long and spindly, the slant of his torso from his chest to his waist almost as severe as that in a woman's body. Everything about Ramza was so very refined and precise it was as if some sculptor had carved him out of stone then miraculously brought him to life. Even his corn-silk hair, tied back, as always, at the nape, was perfectly executed. Delita thought perhaps he ought to feel shame for seeing such beauty in another man, but felt certain that any man of culture would be foolish not to appreciate the aesthetic being that was Ramza Beoulve.

And besides, it was no secret that many, men among them, had admired him more crudely than the connoisseur observing a work of art. No secret to Delita anyway who watched others watch him with lusty eyes across drunken, glittering ballrooms, watched their shameless flirtations and coercing touches, that always passed unnoticed by the impossibly naïve Ramza. If anything, his season at school had simply made the boy more beautiful, muscle-tone having now appeared in his sturdy, slender limbs, and all the more subject to the lecherous advances of drunken aristocrats. And this made Delita gladder to think that when Ramza left, this time he would be with him, and he would be there to protect his oblivious friend from such vile creatures. Though Delita was under no illusions that his own interest in Ramza was merely artistic.

Ramza looked up from his task and glanced towards his sister, who sat on a rock by the water's edge. He said something to her, but Delita was too far away to hear what it was. Not far off from Alma, Tietra stood and futilely attempted to skip a stone across the river's surface.

Then Ramza looked straight up at him and, seeing Delita looking back at him, smiled. Delita thought his heart had dropped down into his stomach, or stayed put and stopped beating all together. And then it was racing.

"Delita!" Ramza called, "will you not come down and swim another minute with us? We needs be starting back soon."

"No Ramza," he called back, his voice quivering slightly. "I've little desire to leave a watermark at supper."

"Do come down and at least speak with us Delita," Tietra implored. "I've not long for your company and am going to miss it so."

Delita sighed and shook his head. He never could seem to say "no" to her. "Well, if my sister commands it," he surrendered and rose to his feet. He strode leisurely down the sloping bank until he was at the water's edge, right beside his willful little sister. He was thankful that Ramza remained in the water, safely out of arms reach, for he could not tell what kind of reactions physical closeness might stir in him.

"Delita," Tietra began, wrapping her arms about one of his, "is it not wonderful? The four of us, here together, just like when we were children. Are you not glad of it?"

"Very glad sister," he agreed, though he was subtly aware that he wished to be rid of her and Alma that he might be alone with Ramza presently.

"How sweet it is to play like this and forget for a moment that we shall all be adults soon," Alma remarked. "I declare this send-off ball he's planned is merely an excuse to present me to suitors that Dycedarg should marry me off in some treaty or ploy for power."

"Alma, speak not so ill of our lord brother," Ramza scolded. "Dycedarg is a good man and all he does is for the good of the family and the people we govern. He shall yet make a fine lord of Eagrosse, shall he not Delita?"

He looked right at him as he asked his opinion and their eyes locked. Delita wondered how long they stayed like that before he finally managed to mutter his agreement and tear his gaze away.

"Blast!" Alma exclaimed suddenly. "I had forgotten. I am to meet with the tailor before supper this eve to be fitted for my gown for Dycedarg's party." Her nose wrinkled as she looked sadly over the river and hobbled from her perch on the rock to the grassy bank. "I must hasten away."

"We shall go with you," Tietra offered.

"No, do not yet leave on my account, but stay a while and enjoy the sunset," Alma protested.

"Oh but I am soaked through and will like catch cold should I not be warm and dry when darkness comes," Tietra declared. "What a way that would be to start the new school year, my nose all swollen and red and sniffling through my lessons. I shall walk with you."

"Not I my sister," said Ramza, though he did begin to make his way towards the bank. "For I do desire to see this day to its end. Forgive me."

And then Delita knew he might have what he wanted, if he chose it. He could leave with his sister, return to the castle and dress for supper, leaving behind the odd and lusty longings of a late summer's day. Or he could stay.

"Not at all brother," Alma said warmly. "I would that I could remain." She turned about to face the other boy in her company. "Will you away with us Delita?"

"I…" He hesitated and considered. Did he want to stay? He was definitely ready to go indoors for the evening; though he liked being outside, he was hardly a great admirer of nature and the promise of a glorious sunset did not tempt. But Ramza did, though he was a temptation Delita thought he ought to resist. Thought he should, but decided not to, and soon Tietra and Alma, with blankets wrapped about them under a false pretense of modesty, had disappeared over the hill and he and Ramza were entirely alone.

They walked up the bank to sit by the blanket Delita had rested on before, Ramza claiming that the view was much better from up there, that one could really appreciate the beauty of the setting sun and its effect upon the water. He said that if you sat down right at the river's edge, the angle was too low, and it would greatly reduce the length of time in which you could view the sun itself, though its effect on the color of the sky could be enjoyed from anywhere. Delita did not care, but pretended to for Ramza's sake. He returned to his still outspread blanket, while Ramza sat on the naked ground nearby, tugging up blades of grass, searching in vain for one to make a suitable whistle.

"Here," Delita said, stretching his arm out to offer a long, flat specimen he had spotted and picked, "try this one."

"Thank you," Ramza said, moving closer and raising a hand to accept it. Their hands brushed and Ramza clumsily dropped the grass, their palms pressing up against one another, their fingers interlocking. Ramza cast his eyes downward and blushed as Delita tightened his grip on him.

"Ramza," Delita began, but realized he did not know what he meant to say. Here he sat, hand in hand with his old friend, a position they'd been in many times before, but suddenly fraught with more than mere brotherly companionship. Yet to the outside eye, there was nothing wrong or sinful about them. It would be a gifted person indeed who could simply look upon them and see the turmoil in Delita's heart. And, if his suspicions were correct, Ramza's too.

"Well, we are to away to Gariland in less than a fortnight," Ramza observed. He shifted to sit beside his friend, never letting go of his hand.

"Yes," Delita agreed, debating whether or not to ignore the sudden heat from the side of Ramza's outstretched leg pressing lightly against his.

"It's strange. I spent five months at Gariland in the last year, yet I feel I've scarcely been away at all," Ramza stated.

Delita laughed, though really he longed to embrace and console his friend. "What, afraid to leave again are you?" he chided.

"No," Ramza protested sharply, breaking from Delita's hold on his hand. "'Twas merely an observation."

"I jest Ramza," Delita said. He rested his weight on the heels of his hands and leaned back, observing the river before him. Eagrosse really was a beautiful place. He'd always thought it rather small and dull for a castle town, but knowing that soon he would be enveloped by the noise and commotion of the distant city made him suddenly more appreciative of the wheat fields and shallow streams that comprised the majority of the grounds at Eagrosse.

"Will you miss it?" Delita asked, head turning to Ramza, whom he discovered was already looking at him.

"I cannot say," Ramza admitted, shaking his head. "Presently, my most vivid memories of home are painful ones." Then he asked, "Will you?"

"No," Delita replied truthfully.

"You shan't?" Ramza asked, bewildered. "Not at all?"

"Of course not," said Delita. "There will be nothing left here for me to miss."

Ramza's brown eyes saddened, but Delita was sure he did not know it, else he would have looked away in a futile attempt to appear strong. But the boy's emotions always registered on his face and he was easier to read than a children's book, though he was entirely unaware of it. And Delita was glad to think that Ramza might be hurt by the idea that he would not miss him.

"You mean Tietra," Ramza said softly. "She will be away at school."

"Of course," Delita agreed. Ramza's hand had fallen back to rest on the ground beside him, and Delita gently placed his hand on top of it. "But you forget Ramza. We shall be together."

At this Ramza blushed again and Delita grew all the more confident of his affection for him. Knowledge compelled him to action, and he lifted an arm about Ramza's shoulders, closing the small gap between them. He kissed him fleetingly, innocently on the cheek, leaned very close to his ear and said lowly, "Were only I away and you remained here, then I would have cause indeed to be homesick for this place."

"Delita…" Ramza began and this time it was he who was speechless.

"You know I missed you every day when you were gone," Delita said, now moving to place a kiss on Ramza's lightly tanned throat. There was a small and distant part of him that told him this was wrong, but that little voice of reason could not trump the mysterious, lusty force that compelled him.

"I missed you too," Ramza near gasped, his neck arching into the touch of Delita's lips.

"I do not think I ever could have forgiven myself if something horrid should have happened to you whilst you were out of my sight," Delita said, sitting upright and drawing the other boy into his arms.

Ramza pushed away. "I can take care of myself Delita."

His eyes did their best to be angry and Delita wondered what his own reflected back. He was not sure what to feel, but he was sure Ramza's attempt at rage was no rejection of him. They stayed like that for a while, until Ramza stopped trying to be angry and Delita started wondering how to get Ramza back into his arms.

A question that was soon answered, as Ramza flew at him, placed his hands on either side of his face, and kissed him. It was a very unsuspected kiss, much harder and more deliberate than Delita would have expected out of Ramza. Nevertheless Delita soon took control of it, Ramza's arms falling limply over his shoulders as he wrapped his arms about his waist and drew him closer to him, Ramza's lips parting easily, allowing Delita's tongue to explore.

Almost as abruptly as it had begun, the kiss was over, Ramza pushing Delita away from him, face terror-struck. "Zalbaag!" he exclaimed in a harsh whisper. "His party rides in from Gariland any moment, they may pass this way."

Suddenly that scrap of reason was much more formidable and Delita remembered why he should not indulge fantasies of kissing Ramza Beoulve. It was not for feelings of shame or sinfulness for desiring another man, for he knew he could not help what he wanted and that history was full of love affairs between comrades in arms, though often un-penned by the record keepers. The trouble was not one of gender, but of station, for if Ramza was discovered he would suffer little, except to become the subject of the latest courtly gossip. But common-born Delita stood to lose everything, when he was finally about to have something to lose. He could no sooner love Ramza's sister, though he suspected punishment might be slightly less severe if he were caught kissing a noble-born girl.

"We must away. We do not want to be late to supper," Delita said finally, rising to his feet. He reached for the tunic and trousers he'd worn out to that morning and began to dress.

Ramza too began to dress but even as his body grew less exposed Delita was no less attracted to him. But he would not have him and never could. Not when he stood to gain so much, a common-born boy about to break into the ranks of nobility as Knight Apprentice. Perhaps some day he might enter into the Order of the Northern Sky and become a war hero, like the late lord Barabaneth. Then through his bravery he might secure himself a title and land, maybe even a castle-town of his own. But until that day Ramza must remain safely in his sight but untouched by any part of him save for his sword hand, to offer a comradely handshake or lend an aid in battle.

---

"Your majesty, are you awake?"

Delita's eyes were open and his surroundings began to come into focus. He was in his bedchamber, covered to the neck with blankets and furs, an assortment of potions and a golden saucer with clean bandages resting in it on a narrow table by his side. In a heavy armchair by the table sat Orran, who must have been the person who'd spoken, for Delita could see no one else.

"Yes…yes, I am awake," he replied slowly, uncertain of what pain speaking might cause. It was minor, but undeniably present.

"You majesty," Orran said, rising from the chair then kneeling by his bedside. He was a miserable sight, eyes bloodshot and encased in dark circles, hair unkempt, clothes all creased and wrinkled. He must not have slept in days. Delita wondered how long he had been at his side, and how long he himself had been unconscious.

"Orran," Delita said, "I…what's happened?"

"We found you, Valmafra and I, by the ruins of the ancient church," Orran answered, his voice pained and hesitant, and of course Delita knew why. As expected, Orran continued saying, "You were gravely wounded, stabbed through the chest, blood everywhere…"

"Ovelia? Where is Ovelia?" Delita asked with feigned concern for he already knew the answer.

"She," Orran began and hesitantly continued, "she is…I am so sorry your majesty, but she is gone."

"Gone?"

"Dead my lord." The first word was almost a whisper.

"I see," Delita said coolly. "So you could not save her." He remembered his plan and tried to think how best to execute it. But his mind was still hazy.

"She was already dead when we found her my liege," Orran said. "There was nothing to be done."

"I know. She was dead upon my own arrival," Delita confessed. "I only hoped that maybe I'd been wrong. But I delude myself. I knew it was hopeless else I would not have–" he paused, the real, physical pain he felt in speaking greatly enhancing the emotional pain he inflected in his voice.

"Would not have what your majesty?" Orran asked insistently.

"Tried to end my own life as well," Delita replied, letting his eyes gaze sadly downward.

"So that is what happened then," said Orran, nodding his head slowly. "The queen took her own life. I had suspected but hoped it might prove untrue."

"Alas, it is the truth," Delita concluded. "And being struck with grief did myself endeavor to join her. But to no avail."

Orran tried to interject but Delita continued, "A fool I was to do so. And a lucky fool, for in my wild folly I could not stay my hand and missed my mark."

"Your majesty," Orran interjected again, this time more forcefully and successfully. "Your majesty, forgive me, but…"

"But what Orran?"

"You are indeed badly off," Orran replied slowly. "Your injuries are grave and we do not yet know if you shall recover from them. Or…"

"Or what?" Delita feared his tone may have been too harsh for one who was supposed to have just attempted to kill himself in mourning for his wife, but Orran's hesitance had struck a note of fear in him.

"Survive them, your majesty." Orran's head was bowed deeply and doing its best to disappear into one of his shoulders.

So that was it then. She really _had_ done him in. How fitting that the key player in his ascension to power should be the same person to end it all. Her death seemed rather pointless now that he was going to die. She was a good person after all, might have done a lot of right for her kingdom. And now he would die wifeless and heirless and then what would there be? Another war? In the end that blasted Louveria might see her son on the throne of Ivalice after all.

Delita laughed at his pathetic fate and immediately remembered that he should not have, for it induced another coughing fit and sent a spurt of blood up his throat and over his lips. Orran was instantly upon him with cloths to mop the blood, and he tilted Delita's head back to help him swallow a potion. Delita was not sure what its intended effect was, but it certainly soothed his throat and counteracted the bitter taste of blood.

"Chemists!" Orran cried. "We need chemists at once to tend to his majesty! Chemists I say!"

"Orran," Delita said weakly, fighting to free his arms from beneath the layers of covers. He succeeded and grasped fervently at Orran's arm. "Is there nothing to be done?"

"We are doing everything we can your majesty," Orran assured him, gently placing a hand over Delita's vice-like grip. "Please save your strength. I fear you shall need it."

Delita released him and fell back onto the pillows. Soon a flurry of chemists and white mages paraded in and fretted over him, the chemists ferociously grinding up herbs to make new potions, the mages casting healing and regeneration spells. Delita was not certain if it was from his own weakness or a sleep spell, but within a few minutes of their descent upon him he could no longer keep his eyes open and he slumbered once more.

---

He could have murdered her. Stupid, stuttering, blundering little Syndonny. She was the daughter of a merchant lord of Dorter, a Knight Apprentice in their year. Not that the girl had ever successfully even struck a stationary target with a sword before, let alone endeavored to wield one on the battlefield. She had given up her instruction in swordsmanship months ago. She was a chemist, and _the _chemist in the party of Knights Apprentice who had been sent in pursuit of the remnants of the Corpse Brigade.

Not two hours prior on the misty Mandalia Plain, they had crossed swords with those they pursued and earned themselves a mighty victory. Yet it was not without cost; one of their party, a young cousin of Duke Larg hailing from Zaland had almost lost his life, and would have indeed had it not been for the foolish bravery and selflessness exhibited by Ramza, who took it upon himself to knowingly enter harm's way to revive his fallen companion. By some miracle, Ramza not only survived a crushing blow from an enemy, but managed to arise victorious in this encounter, though not without a splintered buckler and horribly mangled arm.

Which Syndonny now tended to. Never mind the fact that she ought to have been the one to resurrect the duke's nephew and, consequently, she was responsible for Ramza's injury in the first place. But now, two hours later, at a little village inn in the middle of nowhere she set to making amends for her error, blushing and stammering all the while.

"Oh Lord Ramza you fought well today," she managed in an ill-executed attempt at flirting, her hand lingering on her patients uninjured bicep once she'd secured the end of the bandage it had held. "Fought well." That was all she could come up with. Not "you exhibited unprecedented skill " or "rarely have I seen such skill in one so young" or "it is no doubt thanks to you that we emerged victorious today", any of which would have been true and far more flattering and effective if she intended to seduce the boy. But then again, it was a wonder that she managed to form a grammatically correct sentence given how ineloquent she was, even when not in the presence of one she desired.

"I thank you," Ramza said politely, unaware of her superfluous touch. "And please Syndonny, call me not "Lord" Ramza, for I am no superior to you."

He meant it humbly; she might have taken it as affectionately. "Alright then," she said and, after a moment of hesitation, added, "Ramza." She blushed furiously and set to finishing with his bandages.

Delita thought he might have liked her, were she not so obviously enamored with the object of his affection. He was still not convinced that she was or ever would be a great asset to any battle party, but she was not like other nobles. She had no swaggering arrogance, nor insatiable vanity, nor inability to take "no" for an answer. Sure she wasn't the greatest conversational companion and far too meek to engage in a good argument, but she was sincere and compassionate, and completely incapable of the selfishness so often exhibited by her kindred. For example, were she more ordinary, once she had discovered her lust for Ramza, she would have set about seducing him immediately, with no regard for whether or not he reciprocated her desire. But Syndonny was probably not capable of lust, for any attraction she felt would likely be redirected into affection.

"Is…is there anything else I can do for you Lor…I mean, Ramza?" she asked, having completed her task of bandaging his arm. She did not mean it crudely, but Delita could not help but think how she might have.

"No," Ramza replied, expectedly. Perhaps even more expectedly if Ramza were aware that Syndonny was flirting with him, as he would not have wanted to give her false hope that he might return her affections, but he remained oblivious. Even the most experienced harlot might have trouble seducing the sunny, thick-headed Ramza Beoulve.

"Then, I shall away," Syndonny said, twinge of disappointment in her tone.

"I thank you Syndonny," Ramza said, smiling radiantly and bringing that familiar redness back to the girl's cheeks.

"I…uh, yes Lo…Ramza," she stammered. She rose to her feet from her stool at Ramza's bedside, lowered her head, curtsied deeply and exited the room.

"Anything else I can do for you Lord Ramza?" Delita mimicked when he was certain she was out of earshot. "Anything at all? Tch. How fortuitous to have your party's chemist in love with you."

"Do not jest Delita," Ramza scolded. "She merely attends to me as she would any other patient. She is a good and devoted chemist."

"Yet you do not see her fretting and fumbling like that over me," Delita observed.

"She is merely concerned for me Delita, as she would be for you had you sustained such injury so far away from Gariland," Ramza insisted. "Remember we have not yet been so far from the Akademy."

Delita sighed. "You are right." He was still convinced of Syndonny's fondness for Ramza, but he had to admit that Ramza was correct in stating that they had never been so far away. He ought to have been grateful that Syndonny had enough confidence in her skill to see to Ramza's wounds without the supervision of one of her advisors.

"_Are_ you alright?" Delita asked gravely, moving to sit on the edge of Ramza's bed. Through all of his seething at Syndonny, he had near forgotten that he might well have lost his dearest friend this day.

"Yes," Ramza replied, smiling reassuringly. "I needs just rest and regain my strength. The bandages and potions should well take care of my arm."

"You are certain there is nothing else you need?" Delita asked in earnest, quite forgetting the more carnal interpretation he had imagined when Syndonny had asked it.

"Indeed," Ramza assured him, "else I would have asked Syndonny for it."

"And given her the satisfaction of an excuse to return to your company!" Delita spat, rising from Ramza's bed and stomping back towards the window.

"Must we go through this again Delita?" Ramza asked, exasperated. "Syndonny cares not for me. I am a patient to her, nothing more."

"A most welcome patient, indeed!" Delita remarked. He leaned against the window, scowling.

"Yes, for she is a novice and it is of great import that she find opportunity to practice her art," Ramza retorted. "Any patient is a welcome one."

"Especially if that patient is one you'd lie on your back and open your cunt for, if only he'd realize you were hot to trot."

"Delita!" Ramza gasped. "There is no call for such vulgarity. At any rate, had she feelings for me beyond friendship, I do not and would not reciprocate them."

"Oh no? You would not?" Delita moved closer to the bed and rested his hands on the end of it. "You mean to say to me that if Syndonny offered herself to you, you would refuse her?" He already knew the answer, but now they were arguing and Delita was not about to give it up.

"Yes," Ramza replied.

"You could do that to her?" Delita asked, his voice softening, moving to sit again by Ramza's feet. "Break the poor girl's heart?"

"I would endeavor to let her down easy," Ramza insisted. "But I would refuse her. I do not love her."

"Oh you love not _her_," Delita mused, "and by this you perhaps imply you love another?" Something inside told Delita he ought not to provoke Ramza so, but he ignored it and moved closer. Soon their faces were but inches apart and Delita muttered "Well?" in reaction to Ramza's lack of response.

Ramza cast his eyes downward and, though they were mostly concealed by a deluge of thick, blonde bangs, Delita could see that a soft blush had settled on his porcelain cheeks. "I-," he began, barely audibly. "I-," he repeated, stronger this time, "you know I…well that is to say that, well…"

Delita cupped a hand beneath Ramza's chin and forced him to meet his gaze. "What do I know?" Of course he knew what Ramza was trying to say, and he wasn't supposed to want what the boy was hesitant to tell. But he did, and his desire was trumping his reason.

Ramza tensed, but did not attempt to look away. With slow conviction he began. "You know that I only want…"

And Delita could resist no longer. He veritably threw himself upon his longtime companion, sealing the negligable distance between their bodies, lips covering Ramza's, all his pent up frustration with Syndonny's meek advances erupting in one violently passionate kiss. Ramza's back crashed audibly against the headboard, but he did not falter, and merely eased downwards until his head rested against pillows, his back flat upon the mattress. Delita moved from Ramza's mouth to place tiny, biting kisses upon his jaw bone, before finally contenting himself suck at Ramza's neck, with no regard for the telltale bruises he would leave behind. Ramza's hands tangled helplessly in Delita's hair and the fibers of his tunic, and with each kiss his breath shortened, his pulse quickened, his body arched further into the touch of Delita's lips, which only strengthened the brunette's resolve to devour every inch of him.

Delita reattached his lips to Ramza's, as his hands slid down the boy's sides to find the bottom edge of his tunic. He began to pull it upward and was delighted to find that, in the increasingly hot days of late spring, Ramza had decided to forgo his usual layer of undergarments. They held their kiss until the last possible second, then Ramza broke away to allow Delita to pull the garment over his head. And his arms, which Ramza stretched upwards to assist in the process, and cried out as he extended his injured arm to its full length. Delita ignored it, now kissing Ramza's throat again, now his collarbone, moving downwards to cover in kisses every piece of newly exposed flesh. Ramza reached to touch Delita encouragingly, again with his injured arm, and again he cried in pain, having already over exerted it.

This time Delita did take heed and ceased his advances, crawling off of Ramza to instead sit beside him.

"No don't stop!" Ramza near sobbed, biting on his lip, lying tensely on his back, no doubt in an effort to ignore the stinging in his arm.

Gingerly, Delita drew him upwards into his embrace, Ramza's head resting upon Delita's chest, Delita's arms wrapping tightly about his shoulders. "Don't stop," Ramza said once again, and Delita thought this time he may actually have been crying.

"Shhh," he coaxed, hand stroking the back of the blonde's head, moving downward to the nape of his neck to unravel his ever-present ponytail. Delita tilted his head downwards to kiss Ramza's forehead. He then reached across his body to very carefully take hold of Ramza's injured arm. He lifted it up to his mouth and kissed it, tenderly, repeatedly, moving along the forearm towards the wrist, until he reached the back of the hand and finally the exposed fingertips. He took one of the pearly white digits is his mouth and began to suck.

At first Ramza tensed, his body jerking into stiff attention, surprised by the new sensation. But Delita kept at it, taking the finger further into his mouth, then releasing it, tongue trailing lazily along the sides of it, and moving on to the next finger to treat it in a similar manner. Ramza's breath came in little gasps, his body alternatively stiffening then relaxing against Delita's own, his free hand digging relentlessly into the mattress. After a long moment of relishing Ramza's helplessness, he moved his lips back up along his naked arm and finally returned his attentions to the other boy's mouth. Ramza turned to meet him, their chests now pressed tightly together once again, Delita's hands draped about Ramza's shoulders, Ramza's arms clinging desperately to Delita's back. It was, like as not, all he could do to keep from falling, which he did anyway, albeit more gracefully than he might have on his own as Delita pressed him down to lie on his back once again.

Delita kissed him greedily, never allowing Ramza to take control, never stopping to breathe until he felt he would faint for lack of oxygen. And even then he could not be sure if faintness was truly from lack of oxygen or merely from the euphoria of finally having the thing he had denied himself for so long. Now that he had him, he was determined to do so in every sense of the term; his wandering hands slid their way down the sides of Ramza's naked torso until they found the edge of his trousers.

He tread cautiously, hands sliding beneath the waistband to rest on Ramza's narrow hips. Ramza moaned his approval, pelvis rocking insistently into the touch. Delita quickly moved one hand into the small of Ramza's back and began to undo the leather laces that held his trousers up, while Ramza squirmed awkwardly in a frenzied attempt to assist in the process; he seemed just as eager to be rid of his clothing as Delita was to relieve him of it.

Having successfully untangled the laces, Delita returned his hands to Ramza's hips, this time taking hold of the top edge of his trousers and sliding them downward. He was frustrated but not surprised to encounter a pair of linen drawers, which he furiously set upon removing. As he groped to find the drawstring, he felt his tunic slipping upwards and out of the high waistband of his trousers, felt hands sliding beneath it, caressing his chest. He was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate, for now Ramza grew bold and eased his tongue between Delita's lips, but he soon succeeded in his task, and Ramza was finally completely naked. Delita broke their kiss and pulled his tunic over his head, then buried his face in Ramza's neck. He kissed it fleetingly, then moved to place kisses along his collarbone, then the flesh concealing the sternum, then right above the naval, then below, creeping downward, downward…

A knock at the door sprung him to attention. He almost did not hear it for being so consumed with lust. He tried to ignore it but it came again, this time with a voice.

"Ramza, are you awake?" it called.

"D-d-ddo not reply," Ramza commanded in a harsh, albeit broken whisper.

Delita wanted to comply, but knew that he could not. He moved up to kiss Ramza's lips once more, this time gently, affectionately. "Would that I could heed those words," he whispered lowly, leaning very close to Ramza's ear. "Alas should he open the door to affirm your dormant state, he would discover us."

"No, no please," Ramza begged.

It was almost impossible to resist; like his companion Delita was aroused and aching to be touched, and to bed the youngest Beoulve son, who lay blushing and fetchingly naked beneath him would be just the remedy. But he could not do it. He was reminded of that day months prior when he had promised himself that he would not yield to his desires, that he would resist them until they could do naught to tarnish his reputation, could not impede his rise to greatness. And that day was not today, so despite being so very close, he would once again deny himself that which he longed for. He clambered off the bed, located his discarded tunic, and pulled it back on over his head.

"Delita!" Ramza cried, a little too loudly.

"Shhhh, Ramza," Delita whispered affectedly. "Sleep. Just sleep. I shall go see to whoever it is that disturbs you."

"Delita…" Ramza whimpered, eyes welling up with tears.

And just as Delita finished securing his tunic beneath his waistband the door creaked open. Ramza scrambled beneath the covers and shut his eyes, whilst Delita stood firm to find Argath, the hotheaded squire to the Marquis Elmdore whom they had rescued from the Corpse Brigade, tiptoeing into the room.

"Oh er..uh..Ser Delita was it?" he asked, clearly surprised to have encountered him. "Did you not hear me calling? I do confess, it was Ramza I did address…"

"I heard you," Delita said sternly. "If you'd waited but a moment longer, you'd not have had the chance to enter. I'd thought it best not to call a warning to you for fear of waking our slumbering hero." He indicated Ramza, who remained very convincing in his effort to feign sleep.

"Ah right," Argath agreed awkwardly.

"Will you walk with me?" Delita asked, hand gesturing towards the hallway beyond the open door.

"Indeed," Argath replied and they began their trek down the poky corridor and away from the room where a forbidden love affair was very nearly consummated.

"I wished to inquire after Ramza's health," Argath explained. "Is he well?"

"Thanks to our chemist," Delita said, choking back spite at the thought of he name. "He shall recover. He needs only rest."

"'Tis glad tidings indeed," Argath remarked. "I do confess myself to feel somewhat responsible for his ailment. 'Twas my folly that did force you into the skirmish."

Delita thought he should have said "no", assured him that it was primarily Syndonny's fault, as that was the conclusion he had come to before, but now he was jealous of anyone who might have had that which he almost had today, and that did not exclude Argath. Part of him said it was foolishness, but he was beginning to think that perhaps the arrogant squire had hoped to slink in and take advantage of Ramza in his weakened state.

"Aye," was the only response he could manage, and he would not be sorry if Argath took offense at it.

He seemed not to notice. "I did hope perchance that there was some way I might thank him…"

"He needs no thanks!" Delita declared sharply. _Selflessness need not be encouraged by displays of gratitude, _he added mentally.

"There now Delita, I meant only to act as befits my noble birth," said Argath.

"So you mean to say your act of thanks would be merely to keep up your own pretty appearance, born entirely of vanity and not of any true feelings of gratitude." It was not a question, nor meant to be said aloud. "Forgive me," Delita said a moment later, "I do forget myself."

"Not at all," Argath said. "You are passing bold in the face of your superiors. I ought to see you hanged, or at least locked away in a dungeon." He chuckled.

Delita knew he jested, but he did not find it amusing. In the few short hours Delita had known him, Argath had proved the worst kind aristocrat, egotistical, vain, and arrogant to a fault. While other nobles were capable of coexisting with the common-born Delita, having the decency to hold their tongues and whisper their snide remarks about his heritage to one another when clustered on the opposite ends of crowded ballrooms, Argath was completely incapable of doing so. He clearly believed himself above such false courtesy; he was noble, Delita was common, and he would make sure to remind the latter of it.

"I do believe such punishment might displease your recent savior," Delita said finally. "And since it is his brother's help you seek, I would do naught to upset him if I were you."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Argath agreed.

They had reached the end of the hall now where it met the stairs and came to a stop. Delita moved to begin his descent, but suddenly became aware of Argath's eyes locked upon him, studying him. He turned to meet his gaze.

"Is something the matter?" Delita asked, feeling both relieved and apprehensive when Argath looked directly at his face.

"You are all flushed," Argath remarked. "Perhaps it is I who should be asking you what it the matter?"

"Nonsense," Delita replied defensively. "I am perfectly well."

"Then it is again Ramza after whom I must inquire, for 'twas only you and he in that room, and I do swear I heard him cry ou…"

"His arm was ailing him," Delita insisted. His heart was racing; how long had Argath been outside the room?

"Ah. And I suppose 'twas you who consoled him?" Argath inquired. "After all, you are his dearest friend, or so I understand."

"It was by no skill of mine that he did recover," Delita insisted, perhaps a little too adamantly. "Potions did numb and heal his pain, and I am no great chemist."

"Certainly, you must have been some comfort to him," Argath declared. "Your affection for him alone would-"

"I've no great affection for Ramza," Delita lied and very loudly. "He is a friend to me, and I do appreciate his family's kindness."

"You would do well to remember that Ser Delita," Argath said venomously. "Do not fancy yourself entitled to all your undue privileges. There are some who would search for reason to see them taken from you."

Delita was livid, yet terrified that were he to unleash his mounting temper he might confirm his recent foolishness. He clenched his fist but managed to say calmly, "I will, Ser Argath."

The nobleman smiled in such an unpleasant manner that the smile would be more accurately described a sneer. "Good," he said. He started down the stairs. "Oh and Delita," he added, turning back to him, "I would keep my distance from Lord Ramza, were I you. He seems to be quite infatuated with you, and an outside party might interpret his affection as something, less innocent?" And with that, he was gone.

Delita threw a bridled punch into the nearby wall with his already extant fist. He wanted to strike hard, but knew such commotion would draw unwanted attention and likely do needless damage to his hand. How dare Argath make such assumptions? He'd known them but a few hours and already he presumed to make commentary on their personal lives. The average noble swine might have waited until the following morning or at least until after they had all sat down to supper and he had had chance to carry out a worthwhile conversation with them. But Argath was proving to be several degrees below average when it came to common decency. What Delita wouldn't give to beat some sense into his inflated little head…

Yet the fact remained that what irked him most about Argath's words was not that they were blunt or unkind or suggestive. It was that everything he said was true.

---

He awoke to the sound of chattering voices, at once foreign and entirely familiar. They were girls' voices. Voices young enough to still be girls, though on the verge of belonging to young women. He did not know them, for since he took up arms at the start of the War of Lions, he had not been long for keeping company with ladies. Ovelia had been his sole female companion, until Valmafra became a constant, but such light and jovial voice certainly did not belong to her. He opened his eyes to find two girls, heads covered in pale blue bonnets, dressed in practical, tea-length frocks, of a similar hue and full, off-white aprons seated on a bench beside the table full of chemist's supplies.

_Great, just what I need, _he thought, _a couple of apprentice chemists._

"Your majesty?" one of them said tentatively. She was a very pretty blonde, as most noble-born girls were, with perfectly formed ringlets and brilliantly blue eyes. "Are you awake?" she pressed on. "I think he is awake," she said to her companion.

"You majesty?" said the other. She was not nearly so lovely as the other, save for one staggering fact: her hair was practically black. Every noble girl Delita had ever known was blonde or, at the very least, her pale brown hair might as well have been called blonde. There was the occasional redhead in the mix; had Ramza and Alma been born of the same mother as their elder brothers they too might have had auburn hair. However, never before had Delita seen a noble girl with such shockingly dark hair.

"I shall run and fetch someone," the fair one declared, and almost as soon as she said it, she was gone.

The dark haired girl rose from her place on the bench and inched closer to the bed. "Your majesty?" she said again.

"Yes, yes I am awake," Delita replied. She must have noticed that his eyes had opened else she would never have though to ask if he was awake, and the thought of one sleeping with one's eyes open was disconcerting. That and she very well may have mistaken him for dead and raised unnecessary alarm.

"Someone's gone to fetch help," she said. Her voice was light and timid even at its full volume.

"Why think you I need help, child?" Delita asked, and immediately felt a little foolish; he was far too young still to refer anyone in such terms. Such speech was reserved for old war veterans, scholars and kings long past their prime.

"I...well, you are hurt your majesty, and perhaps you require some attention," she replied hesitantly.

Delita chuckled and found it was far less painful than he might have anticipated. What a sorry lot she was. So young and inexperienced and utterly uncertain of her skills. Though at least she had managed a somewhat articulate reply. "And are you not a chemist and capable of administering such care?"

"I am merely an apprentice my liege," she answered, bowing her head and curtseying humbly. "I was only left here as a watch dog."

"A fine thing indeed, leaving a girl to do a dog's work," Delita remarked. His speech was coming rather easily.

"I did not mean it like that your majesty," she protested, shaking her head, sending loose plumes of near-black hair careening over her shoulders. "I am happy to do that which my superiors request of me. Besides, it is not often that an apprentice finds herself in direct service of the king. It is an honor."

What a novelty she was: dark haired and soft-spoken: a humble aristocrat. Perhaps it was an act and if so she ought to pursue a career in the theatre for she was thoroughly convincing, but Delita felt somehow certain of her sincerity. "You puzzle me," he declared. "Have you no ambition?"

"Why should I be ambitious my liege?" she asked. "I wish only to serve the sick and injured to the best of my ability. I suppose my only ambition is to be the best medic I can."

Delita sat upright, a little too quickly and was soon reminded of his injuries; pain forced him back almost instantly and the girl flew to his side to steady him. She placed her hands firmly, one on his shoulder nearest her and one on his back, and helped him to recline back onto the pillows.

"Hang on your majesty," she said, "help will be here soon."

"I am fine," Delita assured her. "Just moved too suddenly."

"I just pray you have not reopened your wound…"

"Don't be daft girl," Delita scolded. "I have not flown out of bed and into battle, I merely sat up too hastily."

"Yes your majesty," she said obediently, bowing her head and curtseying again.

"What is your name?" Delita asked suddenly. "I feel unkind referring to you as "girl"."

"Teara, your majesty," she replied.

Teara. He suddenly remembered a girl he had not thought about in a long, long time. And was she not the reason for all this? The reason why he had turned the world upside down, the driving force that eventually placed him, a common nobody, on the throne of Ivalice?

"And you are certain you're a noblewoman?" he asked her, though he already knew her reply. Much as she might resemble her, that girl had died years ago.

Teara giggled. "Yes my liege. I am the daughter of the magistrate of sea trade at Warjillis."

"I see," Delita said sadly.

"I shall go and see what is keeping Margeau," Teara declared. "Please stay well while I am gone. I do not think I could ever forgive myself if you were to ail suddenly in my absence."

"Fear not Teara of Warjillis," Delita assured her. "I am as well as I can be and so shall remain."

"I shall take you word your majesty," she said. She curtseyed swiftly and with a brisk turn of her pretty dark head she was gone.

But not entirely gone. For in her stead was the memory of another girl, with long, unruly near-black locks and sad brown eyes. In those last years of her brief life, she was always sad, though she never let on. Hers was a broken spirit, battered to pieces by the cruel insensitivity of highborn schoolgirls constantly berating her lowly heritage. But she glued a smile on her face that never faltered, and few ever realized how miserable she was. Even he, her own brother, did not know of her sorrow. And when he finally did, it was too late; for in less than a fortnight she was gone.

---

He sat on the ground, amongst sun-faded blades of grass, back pressed against the meager remains of what might have once been a barn, a storefront, or even perhaps the great sentry walls of a castle. There was no way of knowing now. His education had not begun until later in life and he'd missed out on general history. The only history he knew was recent enough to have been witnessed by people still living today, and it was a mixed record, all passed on by word of mouth. That and the military history he head learned at the Akademy, but he had never been long for such bookish endeavor and would readily admit he had mostly forgotten it.

Evening was approaching, and soon the sun would disappear beyond the horizon. Another day gone, another day further from the sorrowful memory of his sister's kidnapping, another day lost in rescuing her. It was two days ago now. They had returned to Eagrosse with news of the success of their raid on the brigand's den to the south, only to find that the Corpse Brigade had executed its own assault upon its assailants. Five men dead, Lord Dycedarg bedridden, and Tietra gone, taken hostage by the attacking party.

He'd been furious and confused. Why Tietra? Why did it have to be _her_? She had done nothing wrong; their quarrel was with the aristocracy and Tietra was not one of them. By Alma's account, the other girls at school reminded her of that every day. So why should she be the one to suffer? Of course the answer was simple: her captors thought she was an aristocrat, most likely a daughter of the Beoulve family at that. And why wouldn't they? They'd taken her from the family manse, a well-dressed, soft-handed girl, taking her leisure in the library. It was an honest, but dreadful mistake.

The Brigade was the enemy. They were the ones they had pursued since the day the Knights Apprentice were sent away from the Akademy, the ones who kidnapped the Marquis Elmdore, the ones whom Lord Dycedarg had sent them to destroy. Yet Delita could not help feeling that, if circumstances were different and they did not currently hold his sister hostage and pose a real, immediate threat to her life, then he might easily have given up his pursuit. For they were commoners who held a grudge against the nobility, and he could not help but feel some sympathy for their plight. Though blind as the aristocracy was to the reasons for their grievances, they too were just as blind to another fact: that not all those of high birth fancied themselves so high and mighty as they imagined them to.

Almost as soon as he thought of him, Ramza appeared. His neck was red and bruising, though these were no bruises of lovemaking; those had long since faded. These were bruises born of anger, and as with those marks Ramza had spent a week concealing with scarves and high-necked doulets, Delita was responsible for them. He could still see Ramza doubled over on the ground, one hand placed lightly on his throat, panting, half choked to death by Delita's hand. His temper terrified him; to think he could have flown off the handle like that, and Ramza the victim.

Yet despite the harsh treatment, Ramza had changed his mind. He had implored Delita be reasonable, to wait and have his sister returned to him by more capable hands. But harsh words from Argath had swayed him, and soon they were making ready to depart in pursuit of Tietra. Of course Lord Dycedarg and all the other apprentices in their party believed they were going to augment Lord Zalbaag's assault. The truth was much greater and, aside from Ramza who'd decided it, only Delita was privy to it. Perhaps Argath may have had some inkling, but he was gone now, dismissed forever. Ramza was apparently not so gentle and forgiving to those who would harm or offend those he loved.

"May I join you awhile?" Ramza asked, eyes hiding none of the concern he felt for his friend's welfare. Of course, Delita thought it should be he who worried for Ramza's sake, but Ramza never thought of himself.

"Of course," Delita replied.

Ramza moved closer, but did not sit nor speak. A lone hawk soared lazily overhead, tracing a perfect outline of the orange sun.

"It's beautiful isn't it?" Delita asked. How long had it been since he'd last noticed a day's end? He could recall how lovely everything looked in the soft golden, light of the setting sun, yet he could not remember where or when or whom he was with, nor any specific details. Just that everything was beautiful. "Do you think-," he hesitated, hazy images of his sister on a riverbank plaguing his memory, "do you think Tietra might be watching this same sunset?"

"Don't worry Delita," Ramza said, "I am sure she is well." Then Delita saw him perfectly, almost one year past, sitting beside him, damp and radiant, painted in twilight.

"Something's been bothering me Ramza, for some time now," Delita confessed. He was not sure why he did it. He was usually loath to voice his feelings, even with one so dear to him as Ramza.

"Argath's words trouble you. Am I not right?" Of course he was right. He was disarmingly frank and entirely accurate. Had he been anyone else, he would have found a subtler, more tactful way to express the same truth. But he was Ramza; he concealed nothing and made no apologies for it.

Delita found himself unable to deny him. "There are things beyond the power of our changing, Ramza, try though we might." His scheme to rise to greatness; how hopeless it all seemed now. He was born a commoner and coddled though he'd been by those above his station, and much as he might have believed that some day they would view him as equal, he knew they would never let him forget whom he had to thank for his lot in life. Fret though they might over their precious reputations, they would never know how much more precious was that of a boy who they'd made one of them, but who they could also quash at the slightest misstep.

"Do not say that," Ramza commanded. "If a thing can be endeavored it-"

"Will endeavor grant me an army?" Delita replied sharply, head snapping to glare at Ramza. "I would save Tietra with these hands, if aught were in my power to do. But I cannot. Tis my meager lot in this life..." And that was the truth. Had Ramza not decided on this pursuit, he would be stuck in Eagrosse, waiting while his sister's fate rested in the hands of others. Else he could have pursued her alone and thrown away a decade of noble favor.

He turned his head away and clenched his fist in frustration. How pitiful he was. To think that he would even consider choosing his comfortable lifestyle over his sister's own life was sickening and infuriating. He wanted to break something, to strike someone, to make someone else pay for his predicament, but he was immediately reminded of Ramza, choking, sputtering turning blue under the grasp of his hand, and fear took the fight out of him. He released his fist and discovered a single flower in his sightline, a wildflower, standing tall amongst the grass and bending gently in the breeze.

And suddenly he was a child again. Eight or nine at the most. He and Ramza were on the riverbank picking wildflowers for Alma. She was sick and could not go outside to play, so her brother had insisted they bring her a bouquet because, as Ramza put it, that was what you were supposed to do for sick people. They gathered so many flowers they could not carry them all, and as esacped foxglove and baby's breath marked their trail along the riverbank, Lord Barbaneth appeared.

"Do you remember Ramza?" Delita asked. He reached down beside him and loosed a long, wide blade of grass from the earth. "When your father showed us how to make a whistle of a blade of grass?"

He startled Ramza who dropped his day's spoils and began to cry. He assured him it would be all right and he could simply pick the flowers back up and bring them to his sister as intended. He also suggested that the flowers Delita still carried would be more than enough and perhaps he could bring Alma something else from outside. Ramza shrugged, saying he didn't know about anything but flowers, since Alma would be mad if he brought her a frog with no water and he did not know how to catch a bird. That was when Lord Barbaneth plucked a blade of grass from the Earth, pressed it to his lips, and began to whistle.

It was not a pleasant sound, monotone and hardly resonant, but it certainly got Ramza's attention. Barbaneth helped him choose his own blade of grass then showed him how the trick was done. He blew too hard at first, producing no sound and sending his blade flying to the ground. He picked another and, with some more coaching from his father, soon got the hang of it. Then it was Delita's turn.

Delita pressed the blade of grass to his tightly pursed lips and blew gently. The familiar whistling sound came immediately. As a child, learning for the first time, he too had his share of mishaps, but soon was whistling merrily. Now the whistle sounded only of sorrow, of mourning for carefree days when he and his sister were together and he did not constantly fret over his lack of title or fortune.

He heard a second whistle, softer, sweeter, higher pitched than his own. Ramza too had pulled a blade of grass. And mournful though the sound remained, the addition of the second pitch, blending harmoniously with the first, rendered it undeniably beautiful. Alone the sound was dismal, but the two together held some measure of hope, for they were united in their sorrow and even if all did end miserably, at least that fact would remain.

Delita stopped whistling. Where had Tietra been all those years ago? He could see her in Alma's room, see her eyes widen and mouth gape at the sound of the grass whistle, see her repeatedly blowing a piece of grass right onto the floor, and her joyous expression when she finally succeeded. She had been there when they gave Alma her gifts, but where was she when they'd gone to gather them? He could not remember.

And then the tears came. Tears of frustration because he could not remember and because he could not help her now. Tears of fear that he may never see her again. Tears of anguish at the thought of her dead, and ravaged body abandoned upon the grounds of some brigand's hideout. Tears of mourning for he was all too aware that such a future could come to pass.

"Delita?" Ramza was beside him now, leaning forward, neck craning about to try and get a look at his face. "Delita," he repeated, "are you alright?"

"My sister," Delita replied, turning his gaze to meet Ramza's. "Where was she? Where is she now?"

"I wish I could tell you," Ramza said. "But I promise you Delita, I will do everything in my power so see her returned safely home."

"And what if you are not enough?" Delita asked. Because that was truth wasn't it? Ramza was his only ally in this cruel game of reputations and social statuses.

Ramza gripped Delita's shoulder in a noble attempt at solace. The touch did naught to cheer him though and Delita only continued to cry, now weeping and sniffling. He could not stop himself. He wanted to, wanted to be strong and stoic as he normally was, but the tears just kept coming. He threw his arms around Ramza's neck and sobbed into his chest. Ramza's arms wrapped about him instantly, pulling him close, one hand moving soothingly against his back.

"Ramza," Delita cried, voice muffled by the fabric of the tunic into which he spoke. He shifted his head to one side and spoke again. "Ramza, I cannot bear to lose her." His ear now rested against Ramza's chest right where his heat was; it was beating hard, and the beat growing faster.

"Shhh," Ramza coaxed. Delita may have been mistaken, but he thought he felt a kiss on the crown of his head. "We will save her," Ramza said. "Together, you and I will save her."

"Would that I could act alone and meet with no judgment," Delita said. His arms slid downwards to rest on Ramza's shoulders.

"Do not say such things," Ramza scolded. "Were you to act on your own you would almost certainly be killed and I…"

Delita shifted himself upward so that he was face to face with his companion. "You what, Ramza?"

"I could not bear to lose you."

And there it was again, that force beyond reason that always drove him away from his good senses and right into indulging his desires. He met Ramza's lips with a gentle kiss. And then another, far less gentle, his tongue savagely parting Ramza's lips, hands gripping his shoulders tightly and forcing him towards the ground. Ramza fell back, pliant as always, yielding to Delita's will. Only this time Delita wanted nothing of foreplay; he broke their kiss and immediately began to near tear Ramza's clothing from his body.

"Delita!" Ramza exclaimed, having had his tunic wrenched over his head. He sat up and inched away. "Think about this rationally. You are distraught-"

"Please Ramza," Delita insisted, leaning in and placing another kiss on Ramza's lips. He retreated, leaning back to create distance and turning his head away. But Delita pursued, catching his chin in his hand, tilting it forwards and kissing him again. "_Please_," Delita repeated, more fervently, fresh tears escaping the corners of his already wet and bloodshot eyes.

He was all he had. Tietra could already be dead and it was clear to him now that most of the people in his life whom he'd thought to be friends, small in number though they might be, were nothing more than acquaintances who'd tolerated his company while he was present, but were relieved to be rid of him that they might scoff at his circumstances. He was no longer certain of Dycedarg's or Zalbaag's or even Alma's familial affection for him. But Ramza's love was undisputable, and he had to have it, had to have every ounce of it.

"Delita," Ramza said softly. He stretched his arms out to lie on the brunette's shoulders and rested his forehead against his. "Please do not do something you shall regret."

Delita leaned away, brought both of his hands to Ramza's face and looked him straight in the eyes. "Do you not want me Ramza?" he asked pitifully.

Ramza was silent for a moment, just staring gravely back into Delita's dark eyes. Then he moved his own hands to Delita's face, pulled him close, and kissed him. His kiss was tender, but fervid, born of love, yet charged with passion. Delita's arms dropped and wrapped about Ramza's waist, pulling him nearer, deepening the kiss. When it was over Ramza replied adamantly, "You know I do."

So Delita laid Ramza back upon the grass and finished what he'd started, at a not so faraway inn, nearly three weeks prior.

---

He was surprised when he awoke for he had not realized that he'd fallen asleep. The girls had gone and in their place was Orran, looking far less than grave than Delita last recalled. In fact he did not seem to be fretting at all, for he was reclined upon the window seat, reading what appeared to be a novel rather than some official documents that might pertain to the death of a newly crowned and heirless king. Delita was not even sure Orran had noticed he'd woken.

"Orran," he said softly, pleased that his speech came painlessly again.

"Your majesty!" Orran half-exclaimed, turning his head to regard the bedridden king.

"How long have I been asleep?"

"Not long," Orran replied. "'Twas but a little while ago that the apprentice chemists did call upon me to see to you. I must say I was relieved that it was me they sought and not one of their superiors. It gave me hope that your health was improving."

"And?" Delita asked.

"We do believe it is your majesty," Orran replied cheerfully.

Delita was glad of it, but could not let on, for should he react with too much relief his story of how he'd try to kill himself might become less plausible. Instead he responded with a simple, "I see," hoping that he had just the right amount of melancholy in his tone. It was difficult to discern, for he dared not speak too forcefully just yet.

Orran rose and approached. "Why so grave your majesty? Are you not happy to hear this?"

"My wife is dead, Orran," Delita said flatly. "What reason have I to live?"

"Do not say such things my liege!" Orran scolded. "You are king of all Ivalice! You are hero of the people, the champion who ended the War of the Lions. You must see how truly valuable is your life!"

"But Orran," Delita interjected, keeping up his guise of depression, "the love of my life is dead. And was she not beloved by the people?"

"She was," Orran agreed. "She was, and they all do mourn her passing. As do I."

"I cannot help but fear that I was somehow the cause her death," Delita said, trying his best to sound on the verge of tears.

"Enough of that," Orran said sternly. "No one blames your for her death and nor should you blame yourself. Her mind was fragile; we always did fear it but were more afraid to speak of it. There's none can say what madness it was that drove Ovelia to such fatal action."

"I know this to be true, and yet it consoles me not," Delita sadly agreed. There was no doubt that he had Orran thoroughly deceived, but he added for good measure, "For it is not she alone. I feel somehow accountable for the deaths of many others whom I once held dear."

"Again you speak nonsense your majesty," Orran insisted. He was silent for a moment and sat down upon the bench at Delita's bedside. "I do confess," he said gently, "I do have something to tell which I hope might hearten you."

Delita tried not to appear as interested as he felt. "And what is that?" he asked, his voice sounding thoroughly hopeless.

"Not two weeks prior, Valmafra and myself had secretly taken leave to pay our respects at the grave of young Alma Beoulve," Orran confessed.

"Why so secretive?" Delita asked. "Feared you that I would disapprove?"

"Not you, your majesty," Orran protested. "But there are many who would not see me show my love for a family the demise of whom is shrouded in such controversy."

"This I do understand, for we are men of appearances and cannot be seen to sympathize with those held in ill regard." As the words rolled off his tongue, he was struck with a familiar tinge of self-loathing. Was this fear of tarnished reputations not the very thing he had sought to destroy?

"Indeed," Orran agreed, nodding. "I did not wish to tell you, for I knew there was no way that you could visit yourself, and I know the youngest Beoulve children were very dear to you."

_The boy held dearer than he can ever realize, _Delita thought and his feigned sadness became suddenly real.

"There were but a handful of mourners there," Orran continued. "Some remarked sadly on Ramza's lack of funeral rights. I myself was further saddened at the thought of my own father's passing by his side."

"It is indeed a dark time for all," Delita said.

"And then just as I was trying to let go my denial, incredible though it may seem, I saw them."

Delita was certain he'd misheard him. "You saw who?"

"Ramza and Alma," Orran replied. "I saw them, riding away from the burial grounds upon chocobos. At first I did think I may have seen ghosts, but they looked bright and real as you or I. And when they left, I did watch them ride off into the distance and not evaporate from existence as a ghostly memory might do."

"Ramza…alive…" Delita said distantly. Even as he spoke he could not believe it to be true. Not now that he had accepted him for dead or at least acknowledged that he was forever lost to him. No, it couldn't be so.

"I believe he is my liege," Orran declared. "Else my delusions are so potent that Valmafra too does see them, for she would swear to have borne witness to it."

"But he met his death in battle, fighting at Mullonde, I am certain of it. Did not they find the corpses of both he and Alma?"

"No your majesty," said Orran. "They found only the body of a girl presumed to be Alma Beoulve. All else involved in the incident at Mullonde vanished and were declared dead."

"Then your father…" Delita began, trying very hard to appear interested in anyone other than Ramza, "He…he may be alive?"

"I dare not hope to think it so," Orran replied.

"But it may be true?" Delita asked insistently.

"Yes," Orran said. "It may be true."

Delita thought he might faint, and not of pain, nor loss of blood. He felt suddenly gripped with a dizzying confusion, like he were standing on the edge of a cliff overlooking indeterminable depths and he'd lost the sense of solid ground beneath his feet. His beloved Ramza was alive and not just maybe, unless some horrid fate had befallen him in the course of the week. And naïve and stubbornly optimistic though he might be, Ramza was far too clever to fall victim to any scheme that was not meticulously sculpted to undo him. Perhaps now even Delita's own deceits would not escape his notice.

"Are you displeased with this news my liege?" Orran asked cautiously.

Delita reclined back against his pillows, lightheadedness refusing to subside. "No," said he, "I am very glad of it. Forgive me if I seem despondent. This has come as rather a shock to me."

"I understand your highness. I only hoped it might hearten you to know that not all of those you love are forever lost to you."

"It has," Delita pronounced solemnly and added mentally, _More than you can ever realize._

"I shall take my leave of you. I fear this news may have exhausted you in your weakened state. Is there anything you require?"

"No," Delita answered. "Only to be left alone that I may dwell upon this subject 'til the shock does pass and I may freely rejoice in it."

With a bow, Orran said, "Then I bid you farewell," and he was almost out through the door when Delita cried out for him to wait a moment.

"Orran," said the king, "have you any idea as to the whereabouts of Ramza or his sister?"

"Regretfully, no, your majesty," Orran answered sadly. "Nor have we any guess nor means of locating them. By official record, they are dead and thus none would think to look for them. And dear and great though Ramza may have been amongst those who knew him, do not forget he was called heretic and unpopular amongst the powers that be. Few knew of his true and noble needs and most would happily see him dead. For who but us knew of the corruption within the church?"

"Of course," Delita agreed. "Carry on. I think I may yet sleep a while more."

Soon Delita was alone again and acutely aware that slumber would not come to him. For his mind was restless and sent him on fruitless quests across kingdom and country in search of a man he'd hitherto believed a ghost. Still he could not be entirely certain of his existence. Even if he lived and breathed he might never find him. And that, he thought, was far worse than his previously confirmed death. For he would never again be easy in the knowledge that Ramza lived yet beyond his realm of knowledge or influence. Though death had not been his intention, was it not he who had encouraged his righteous blonde companion towards it? He was unsure whether to rejoice or despair in the fact that, though he had steered his friend into certain doom, Ramza had survived it.

The sensation of warm, sparse liquid by the sides of his nose made Delita realize suddenly that he was crying. Not a lot, but tears just the same. He could hardly recall the last time he had done so.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** So….this was originally just supposed to be that first little section about Delita deciding to pretend that Ovelia committed suicide. Instead I ended up with an epic. Well, what are ya gonna do? More soon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part-II**

Delita was beginning to question the brilliance of his plot. It seemed failsafe; capture the princess, bring her to Goltanna, win his favor, rise in rank, rinse and repeat. At the very least he should see himself made a commander before the year was out. Possibly greater as Ovelia was Goltanna's surest route to the throne. But there was something wanting in it and he suspected the reality of the princess herself was likely the blame.

She was not a regal, arrogant thing as Delita might have expected from one as highly born as she, but then again Delita had never met any monarchs, and it was possible that the haughty, disdainful countenance he had so often observed was reserved for the lower nobility. Still he would have at least thought there would be some pride in her, yet there was not. She was somber and pallid, accepting her abduction with quiet indifference rather than kicking and screaming or boasting of hope for a valiant rescue. She had made some small mention of her body guards coming to her aid, but did not seem to really care whether they succeeded in retrieving her or not.

It was pathetic really. Here was a girl who might have had the world, who's position in life was great enough that she could accomplish anything if she endeavored to do it, yet she was too miserable and feeble to do so. Yet truly, he thought, it must have been harsh abuse indeed that could have rendered her so wretched, for even the weakest of spirits would not be so broken as hers without significant battering. He could not help but sympathize with her melancholy, for having he himself endured so many years under the torment of relentless nobility. He now began to realize that he hitherto had not understood the expanse of their cruelty, for none ever stood to gain anything by his exploitation.

Somehow he could no longer rejoice in using Ovelia to his advantage, for in doing so, he merely sentenced her to continue to suffer as a pawn in Duke Goltanna's ploy for the throne. She ought to have been the queen, the most powerful player in this twisted human chess game. Instead she was just as powerless as he, a landless, fortuneless commoner. He wished more than anything that she had been spoiled and horrid as he had imagined her, so that he could turn her over to those powers that sought her without any remorse.

Perhaps that was why he had let her go. Of course he already had designs to reclaim her; the fact that her rescuers intended to bring her to Cardinal Delacroix in Lionel had not escaped his ears and he knew that, though the cardinal _seemed_ a neutral power, he would certainly endeavor to use Ovelia for his own purposes, once she fell into his protection. That is if Confessor Marcel wished it, for the church was just as guilty of power mongering as the nobility, only they were far better at hiding it. This left Delita with two ways in which he might reclaim her: one, rescue her from Delacroix before he used her to personal advantage, and two, present himself as an ally to the cardinal and offer to deliver the princess to Goltanna in his name. The first option was better, for it was more heroic, but either way still ended with him hand delivering the princess to Goltanna and ascending by his favor. And it remained to be seen just how much loyalty the church thought they could afford to pay to either Goltanna or Larg in their quest to start a war between the two.

How he had fallen in with Goltanna in the first place was no deed of chance. An explosion at Ziekden fortress, the battle that saw his sister's death, had left him too presumed dead by all who knew him. In truth it was Tietra who had saved him from death, for with her last life's strength did she move to shield him from death. She had died needlessly, victim to the indifference of the nobility in the quest to eradicate a common nuisance. It was a tragic death; even were she not his beloved sister, he would have mourned for her. Now he was alone in the world, penniless, friendless, left with no real desire to even continue living. Zalbaag himself, one who'd claimed that Tietra was dear to him as his own sister, was the very person who gave the command to kill her. Enraged though he had been at the calmness the man displayed upon her kidnapping, he never believed for a moment that he would love her so little as to kill her.

It destroyed him. Everything he'd ever known was a lie, every kindness and luxury paid to him by the upper class, a frivolous pastime cast aside when they grew tired of it. For three days he ate nothing, drank little, and lay in misery by his sister's lonely grave. He had no recollection of sleeping, or even breathing, just the all-consuming desire that his life might simply slip away from him and thus end his suffering. But this feeling did not last; as the third day came to an end, so too did his wish for death. His sister had used her last flicker of life to save him, and if he did not live, her death would truly be in vain. He gathered what little strength and food he could find and departed in search of a town.

A torrential rain struck just as he reached the outskirts of a village called Ilinor, forcing him to seek shelter, for were he to catch cold in his half-famished, already ailing state, he might very well meet the end he had recently wanted so much. But he had no money for lodging and no desire to loiter amongst the tavern crowds, so he made for the only place where he knew he could find temporary shelter without expected patronage: the church. It was a small church, though not so small and unassuming as to be deemed modest, and presently unoccupied, save for an exceedingly polite and humble robed man and a very impressive looking grey bearded old clergyman.

The clean-shaven man, whom Delita suspected was the local priest, addressed him. "Welcome my child," he said. "Be it the rain or something greater that doth compel you to enter our walls, you are most welcome."

"Thank you," Delita tried to say, but the words did not sound quite right. He was dizzy and beginning to feel as though all sensations in his limbs were lost to him.

"You are pale and weary my son," observed the other. Delita thought he ought to have recognized him, yet he could hardly be certain of anything he saw at the moment. "What is it that ails you so?"

"I–" Delita began, unsure of what he wanted to say. His vision was blurring, fuzzy black dots replacing details of his surroundings and he realized he was on the verge of fainting just in time to throw he head down between his knees and prevent it. Still he found such sudden motion to be taxing, and though he did not faint, he had no choice but to let his body crash upon the floor.

Hands rushed to his aid, the lesser priest forcing a shoulder beneath his arm and helping him to sit upright. "You must rest child," he said gravely. "You are not well at all. I can only pray that you have not come to us too late."

Until that moment when he was half-dragged away across the wooden surface of sanctuary floor, hardly aware of whether he was truly conscious or on the edge of dreaming, Delita had never truly contemplated his death. He thought if he closed his eyes now and surrendered to darkness, creatures of the hereafter, if there were such a place, would rise up and drag him away, never to see the light of another living day. Though he did not know what he believed in terms of heaven or hell, he was certain of one thing: that he was terrified. Whatever came after life was a mystery that Delita was not anxious to solve and so he knew that he must fight to stay awake, or else be forced into discovering the answer.

He was laid upon an empty bed in the clergyman's apartments. The priest who had guided him there encouraged him to relax and sleep, and assured him that very soon monks and white mages would come to his aid, but Delita refused, still afraid that sleep would lead only to death, for if he did not remain awake, how was he to fight it? The priest sighed at his stubbornness, but bid him suit himself, and he went off to fetch the aid he had promised. For a moment Delita believed he was alone, though he did not know whether this thought should be a relief or distress to him, but long before he had a chance to dwell upon this dilemma he heard a voice.

"You seem very anxious to evade death, my son," it said. It was the other clergyman, the one with the lavish garb and long white beard. "How is it that one with such a strong will to live came to be in such a fragile state?"

"M-m-momentary lapse of spirits, f-father," Delita chattered. He was shivering, though whether it was for want of food or warmth, he could not say.

"I take it you speak of hope and courage and do not imply that you drank yourself into such misery. Forgive my impertinence, but may I inquire as to why you were so disheartened?"

Delita saw no harm in answering, for he was a priest and accustomed to hearing people's confessions. "My sister was killed."

"Is that all?" the priest asked. "I mean no offense, and am sorry for your loss, but during such troubling times as these, people are killed every day."

Delita realized the man may have been trying to provoke his anger, but he retorted anyway with, "No she was killed by one who claimed to hold her dear. Used and sacrificed by a noble family when it became convenient for them." The brush of rage was sustaining him; he was finding it much easier to fight sleep whilst he had another emotion to focus on.

"Ah, that is more worth such destructive grief," said the priest. "And you wished to join the sorry girl?"

"I had thought so," Delita confessed. "But presently I do not. With the last of her life did she save my own, I cannot let her die in vain."

"Then what is it you want my son?"

"I-" Delita began determinedly, but he could not continue. He clenched his fist, albeit rather weakly, in frustration and curled his lower lip under his teeth. He did not know how to respond, for the requested answer eluded him. He did not want revenge. He'd already dispatched of that sniveling Argath, by whose arrow Tietra had met her demise, and though he would be happy to see Zalbaag suffer he did not expressly wish for his death. There had already been too many pointless deaths and though the nobility was to blame of nearly all of them that did not mean that they should all pay with their lives. But neither could they continue to go about disregarding the lives of those deemed less important than theirs. Then something occurred to him.

"I want to protect my sister's memory. I want to ensure that what happened to her never happens to anyone else ever again."

"A noble sentiment indeed," the priest observed. "What say you if I were to make you an offer that might aid you in your quest?"

He was High Confessor Marcel, acknowledged sovereign of the Church of Glabados. And to Delita he revealed the church's plot to overthrow the nobility. He did not reveal all at once of course, nor quite so bluntly; Delita did succumb to the powers of sleep not long after Confessor Marcel had initially asked him to join in the church's plight. But in time, he did explain the whole of it, how they sought to stage a war of succession between Dukes Larg and Goltanna, a trivial war waged by the nobility on the nobility, that would naught but aggravate the common people. The incessant war costs and distaste for needless violence would turn the commoners to the church, and the church in turn would use their favor to incite rebellion against the nobles, ending their war and establishing the church as the supreme political power in Ivalice. That is, if Goltanna and Larg's parties did not destroy one another completely before the commoners had a chance to rebel, for that was a possibility and a highly desirable one.

From Confessor Marcel's perspective, Delita was a broken, desperate soul, with every reason to hate the nobility and thus an excellent candidate to join in the plot to destroy them. What the church needed were commoners, commoners to help plant the seeds of aversion and rebellion amongst the people and then guide them towards the church to seek counsel on these ill feelings. Delita had to admit, he did like the idea of overthrowing the nobility, though whether or not he thought the church more likely to be just and caring towards those not of high birth he could not say. Nevertheless, he agreed to join the church's cause

Three days after his initial arrival at the small church in Ilinor, Delita departed it in the company of High Confessor Marcel. They made for Mullonde, where Delita would meet the others, like him, who had elected to aid the church in its endeavor. The rain had driven many creatures, some of them hostile, down into the trees for shelter and their travelling party was not spared several encounters. Confessor Marcel was only too pleased to discover that in addition to being a fierce spirit, Delita was no slouch on the field of battle, for he fended off attacking goblins with greater speed and prowess than most of their accompanying guards. The boy was proving himself to be a much more useful ally than he'd originally thought.

In less than a fortnight, they reached their destination, relatively unscathed, plans already in motion to put Delita's particular talents to work. The solution was this: install Delita amongst Duke Goltanna's Order of the Southern Sky as a spy for the church. He might then assist in ensuring an alliance between Ovelia and Goltanna, such a union being necessary for starting the intended civil war. Then should individuals within the Southern Sky become too powerful, or suspicious of the church, Delita would be on the inside, and capable of dispatching of them without much hassle.

Of course Delita could not be instantly drafted into the ranks of Goltanna's army, for though Delita had much experience in the ways of the nobility he could not feign land and title, both of which would have been necessary for immediate acceptance. So he was placed amongst the Blackram Knights in Goltann's own city of Zeltennia, presented by the high confessor himself to their commander, Baron Grimms, as a orphan, raised in the monastery at Mullonde, educated by its priests and schooled in the ways of battle by old veterans of the Knights Templar. The Baron dared not appear impious before the head of the church and thus eagerly accepted the boy into his ranks as a city guard.

For three months Delita remained in Zeltennia, containing rebel uprisings and fending off the occasional attack from monsters or enemy troops. He endeavored to gain favor through exceptional service, devoting himself unflinchingly to improving his swordsmanship, and many was the solider who spoke highly of Delita to his commander. During one rebel skirmish, the baron finally saw that all of these reports were true and when a lieutenant met his end in battle, so impressed was Baron Grimm's by his most promising new recruit, that he immediately promoted him to fill the late man's post.

In another four month's time, King Ondoria's health was failing and Goltanna sought to make use of Ovelia's claim to the throne. One night a young woman appeared in Delita's quarters at the baron's estate. She was tall, slender and blonde, with a curious style of dress marked by a rather plain, short brown dress and vibrant blue cape. Who she was, what she wanted or how she had even found him, Delita did not know.

"My name is Valmafra. I have been sent by the church," she explained to the confused party.

"How did you get in here?" Delita asked, for the grounds were well guarded and the building he dwelt in housed many soliders.

"I have my ways," said she.

"What want you of me?"

"I bear news from the high confessor," she said. "The Northern Sky plans to kidnap Princess Ovelia. As there is little hope of her yielding her claim to the throne to appease Larg, they will like as not kill her. They plan to frame the Southern Sky for her mishaps."

"And what has this to with me?" Delita asked.

"You are to pose a Knight of the Northern Sky and be the one amongst the raiding party at Orbonne who kidnaps the princess," Valmafra commanded. "Then you shall deliver her to Goltanna where she will be forced to accept his protection. In the morning, you shall tell your Commander Grimms of this plan. You are the one who has heard of the Northern Sky's plot. You are the one who has formulated the plan to infiltrate their ranks to ensure her safety. If you speak thusly, he cannot refuse you when you propose that it is you who should be her deliverer."

Delita wanted to object, for he loathed being ordered about so, but it was a good plan and he found he could do naught but silently nod his acceptance. Sleep had not come to him that night, for he was plagued with doubts about the path on which life was taking him. He had always sought to be master of his own fate, and for months, though a part of him knew he served the church, he had operated on his own, improving his swordsmanship because _he_ wanted to, earning his promotion because _he_ had worked hard to make it so. But now he felt like nothing more than a tool to be used and thrown away at the church's convenience, just as he had always been to the nobility. They had formulated a plan and he would dutifully follow it. If it resulted in his death, so long as Ovelia remained well and in Goltanna's hands, he doubted any would mourn him.

After another hour of staring at the plaster ceiling Delita had decided this: that the best way to avoid being used was to know that you were, yet appear to be oblivious to it. Favor with Goltanna might advance him far in life, for Goltanna might one day be regent, so though it was the church that sent Delita to him, he thought he might well capitalize on this impending relationship. He would play the part the church wanted him to, and he would keep his options open as to what other alliances he formed whilst in their service might more soundly insure his ascension.

When morning came he told the church's plot, as if it were his own, to his commander and soon was on his way back towards Gariland, the city in which he had learned the swordsmanship to which he owed his current good fortune. Within a month, again through the sly white lies and negotiations of the church, he was installed amongst the Northern Sky, ordered to kidnap the princess whilst a party in their alliance, dressed as Knights of the Southern Sky, staged a battle on any resistance encountered at Orbonne. And kidnap the princess he did, but never with any intent of delivering her to Dycedarg, nor Larg as instructed but rather to their great enemy Goltanna.

It was too easy; he should have realized it. The feeble knights sent by the Northern Sky to pose as and frame their enemies for the princess's abduction were easily bested by the princesses body guard and the band of mercenaries there. He saw now that he ought not to have been surprised when he found himself and the princess surrounded by Northern Sky troops at Zeirchele falls. His surprise should have been even less on discovering that one of the mercenaries who came to aid the princess's guard in rescuing her turned out to be in the employ of Lord Dycedarg and that he had furthermore been instructed to kill the girl. Yet fortunately for him the princess's guard proved stronger than the knights and won victory over them, with more than a little thanks owed to the only person in this world whom Delita could be said to love.

Ramza Beoulve was alive and well. Of course Delita did not suspect him dead, but nor did he expect him to appear as he was. His hair had been cut short and he donned none of his usual finery, but wore sturdy work boots and the kind of unflashy metal armor that one might find on a common solider. Much of the softness in his appearance had gone and even his face seemed taught and hardened. If Delita didn't know any better, he'd have thought in their months apart that Ramza had become jaded and disillusioned, suddenly and unwillingly aware of the reality of human nature.

But his eyes, his eyes were exactly the same. Maybe a little bit sadder, but just as hopeful and trusting as they ever were. So despite the fact that Ramza had grown in strength and life experience, this growth had done naught to change his nature. Though he was now aware that people were capable of corruption and deceit, he still believed them good until proven otherwise. Hence why he would have decided so quickly on Cardinal Delacroix as the potential ally into whose hands they could safely place Ovelia, for he was a man of the church, and Ramza would never suspect the church of any selfish wrong doings.

Nor could he ever suspect that Delita might plan to use the princess in his own bid for self-advancement. Of that he was sure.

"Delita." The sound of his name, so pleasant and familiar in Ramza's voice, still rang vividly in his recent memory. "I did not think we would meet again, but…" His hesitation was rapturous, the anticipation of his eventual, "I am glad we have," just as gratifying as the sentiment.

"It was Tietra," he'd replied, looking to the sky. He hardly knew what he meant by it, except perhaps to inform Ramza how she had helped him to survive the explosion. He'd then clenched her locket, the one she'd been wearing on the day she died, in his fist and raised it towards the sun, trying his best to believe that she'd passed on to a better place and they might yet in death be reunited. It was all he could do to tear his mind from Ramza, from his desire to hold him and kiss him as he had so seldom done before.

"She watched over me then–as she does now."

A hawk then flew overhead. There had been a hawk that day too.

For the second time since he'd seen him Delita relived it. Ramza pressed against the ground, their bodies naked, lined with sweat, intertwining, Ramza's short and gasping breaths, the feeling of the dirt and grass against his own knees, the fear that his heart would burst for beating so fast, Ramza screaming in some combination of pain and ecstasy, and that feeling that just for a moment, he did not care for wealth or power or whatever judgment those in possession of it may pass upon him for this was pure bliss and all he ever needed or wanted.

He shook his head, as if such action might eject the memory from it. If Tietra really did watch over him at that moment she must be trying to tell him that he ought to keep on loving Ramza. He was not yet sure if he could do that.

What he did know was that he had allowed Ramza to take the princess from him. Poor Ovelia! He had turned her over to one who now unwittingly led her back into certain peril. Yet perhaps it was no coincidence that he had felt so easy and generous in relinquishing her to Ramza, for though she would continue to suffer, he was certain it would never be by Ramza's hand. He was the one person in the world who would truly never use her for his own ambition.

She had made a great ally in Ramza, but alas, Delita would soon be forced to come to her rescue and deliver her straight into the hands of one who sought to use her just like all the rest, so that he too may prosper. But if selfless, honorable intentions did naught but place the princess in repeated danger, then how was she to survive this impending war? Better to see her used and deceived until she gains the security of the crown and title of "queen" and then right all the wrongs of the world from her throne.

There was no saying that Razma would make no attempt to reclaim her after Delita had done so himself. But he was beginning to think that this real life game of reverse manhunt, with Ovelia as the hunted and they the hunters, might be just the thing to propel him through the ranks of the Southern Sky and secure him great enough station to decide whether he could afford to love Ramza or not.

---

Ovelia's funeral was held three days after her birthday, which was also the very day on which she died. It was determined that Delita was now well enough to be moved from his bed, though he was not permitted to attend the burial for fear that the journey to the burial grounds would be too taxing on him. The service, however, was held within the chapel on the castle grounds, thus allowing the king to attend. He was carried down to the courtyard upon a litter, and placed into a carriage to complete the short trek to the chapel.

Upon entering the none too modest sanctuary, for indeed it was lavishly decorated and larger than the churches found even in prominent lesser castle-towns, Delita beheld Ovelia for the first time since he had killed her. Death had done naught to whither her; even before her death the girl had been pale and spiritless. There was a brief period when her cheeks resembled something full and rosy like those of most young women her age and fortune, but that had passed not long after her marriage to the king. Delita thought now that he should have suspected that she had fallen out of love with him, for her loving him was the only thing he could imagine might have contributed to her improved health. But in those last months of her life she was as sullen as ever, wasting away her days in her library, refusing the company even of her ladies in waiting, rarely speaking more than two sentences to him at dinner, let alone coming to his bed, nor even expressing any interest in doing so.

To say that he had never loved her would not be a lie, yet the truth was not as harsh as that. No he had not loved her, not as one ought to love a spouse, yet he had, in an usual way, found in her a kind of soul mate. She was an heir to the throne, denied all the power and luxury that her title ought to have afforded. He was raised amongst the nobility, educated in the same schools, dressed in the same finery, yet constantly in debt to those who elevated him to such a status. Both lived on the brink of ruin, their fates not of their own choosing but dependant on those who weaned them. Ovelia ought to have been independently powerful but could not see that in allying herself with others, she merely allowed them to make use of her unharnessed influence. Delita could see this, just as he had seen how he had been manipulated by those who'd claimed to esteem him, and thus chose to save her from her fate.

At least that was what originally his intention. His own realization of her usefulness did not come until he began to notice her more than merely grateful interest in him. He was her hero, the only person who ever really expressed an awareness of her suffering, first who ever seemed to really be looking out for her. How could she not have fancied herself in love with him? But she was a princess who might some day be queen, and a queen would be in need of a king and in this war torn world where a commoner had already managed to climb through the ranks of offices normally reserved for the nobility, why should he not set his sights on the ultimate prize?

It was simple enough to woo her. After all, she _wanted _to be in love with him. And with all of the attempts on her life made by Larg and who knows what other outside parties, he had many opportunities to come to her rescue. Yet he did not win her through deeds alone, for his incredible amount of sympathy for the girl made her an easy conversational companion. They talked of everything and nothing; in him was she able to confide her fears that she was being constantly used, that none ever remembered her gods given free will, her longing for happier times and friends long lost whom those that controlled her had driven her from. To her he would speak of his sister, a girl not unlike herself, raised with love and attention amongst nobles, then cast aside at their convenience. It was brilliant really. He compared Ovelia to one whom he had so tirelessly adored, his poor, tragic sister and swore that he would never allow her to meet a similar fate.

Of course Ovelia might have been more similar to his sister than most people realized, for it was once claimed that she was not actually Ovelia, but a substitute, placed in her cradle when the real Ovelia died in infancy. But this was not a widely known topic, nor was its veracity ever disputed or confirmed. And now it never would be, for soon she would be laid to rest under many feet of cold, hard earth.

Wretched thing! He did not regret killing her, for she had turned against him and might have brought about his ruin if she lived, but he did not rejoice in it. Their brief marriage had been at once wildly passionate and completely loveless; in the first few weeks following the wedding, seldom was the night that the king did not visit the queen's apartments. But that was all he did: visit, arrive some time after dinner, often after consuming several more glasses of wine, have his way with her, and return to his own apartments to sleep. He professed to love her, and would see to her by day, always making an effort to dine with her and bestow gifts of jewels, or clothing or chocobos upon her as often as possible. However, he could not bring himself to lie the night through by her side. Eventually he stopped visiting her all together and she voiced no desire that he might resume the behavior.

As the service began, it dawned on Delita that the last time he had been in this chapel was on his wedding day. How long ago it seemed, though in truth it was not even three months prior. He could hardly recall any of the details of it, for his sights were on the future, not the present, for once he was properly married to the princess the coronation would take place. He was not happy to be married to _her_; he was happy to be marrying the one who would gain him the crown. He tried to remember details of the ceremony, but everything came up blank, no images of Ovelia looking radiant in a wedding gown, no wedding jitters, no blushing bride, no thrill of happiness at his first married kiss. Only impatience to move on to the ceremony that would see him crowned king, and impatience left no images to be recalled.

"Dear friends, family, citizens," the old priest began, "today are we all united as mourners for the passing of our most gracious Queen Ovelia." If she had died but a few months sooner, Confessor Marcel might be the one presiding over her funeral. But it was difficult to give a sermon when you yourself now lay in your grave.

Delita did not truly hear much of what was said. He heard an endless drone of words, prayers for the protection Ovelia's soul, hope that she might be reunited with those she herself had loved and lost, prayers for him, that he might be strong and withstand her passing. Yet he lacked understanding. They were just words, devoid of meaning. He could not tell her whether it was guilt, for here sat Ovelia's murderer at her own funeral, or sincere lack of interest that fueled his indifference. And there was the little matter of church corruption, but this priest was probably oblivious to that, and at any rate it was gone now, passed unnoticed. The old Church of Glabados was intact, now free from any dealings with the Lucavi, and a new era had come to the kingdom of Ivalice, with Delita at the head of it.

The Lucavi. The Knights Templar. They had all been destroyed, had they not? Delita had certainly heard naught of them since the incident at Mullonde. Unfortunately all who had bourn witness to these events were missing, so none could say for sure what happened there. But soldiers from Zeltennia had managed to retrieve the bodies of several of the Knights and Delita could only assume that all had gone as he had hoped, for if the Knights did survive they certainly would have staged an attack against him by now. How fortunate it was that Alma had proved so essential to the Templars' plot, for she served as perfect bait to lure in the one who would eventually lead to their undoing. Ramza had remained predictable to the bitter end, always placing the welfare of others before himself, especially that of those whom he loved.

But had he really met his end? For the past two days since he learned he might live, Delita had done his best not to think of Ramza. But trying not to think of him made Delita only more apt to dwell upon of his former beloved, so instead he resolved to think _only _of him, which was also futile for he actually _did _what he had decided to do. And though he tried to think of happy times, long before the Akademy or Tietra's death or their ill-fated love affair, he always came back to Ramza wandering the world, careless, free and never thinking of the peasant boy he had once loved. So Delita chose instead to think of something else to try and distract himself, and presently that was Ovelia, for it was after all, her funeral.

It was a pleasant service. Though Delita felt nothing, everyone else seemed to be moved, and the choir sang while the organ played a requiem that was entirely too powerful and passionate for one so taciturn as Ovelia. Orran made no attempt to hide his tears, and Valmafra clung tightly to his arm to comfort him. Delita thought he should appear so shaken, for he was supposed to have been madly in love with the dead girl, but he could not bring himself to feign it. He merely sat in silent stoicism, hoping that in the eyes of the congregation, he was simply in shock and incapable of expressing the depths of his grief. Such a reaction was common in one who had just lost the love of his life, was it not? He seemed to recall that when his parents died, he had not felt anything until days after they were laid to their final rest.

His eyes scanned the room, taking in the solemn faces of those gathered in the church. There mere many he recognized, but few he knew. Many of them were courtiers, his casual companions, with whom he took his leisure, hunting, riding or engaging in friendly sparring matches. Some of the ladies he recognized as Ovelia's ladies in waiting, for they always took their attention away from their needlepoint or game of cards to greet him when he visited the queen's apartments. Others he recognized as well-to-do citizens from his days serving amongst the Blackram Knights, long before his coronation, and many of those of who remained of the Order of the Southern Sky were in attendance. A somber lot, visibly devoid of all of those who had once ruled the major cities of the land, for nearly all of them had lost their lives in the War of the Lions.

Then he saw her. Golden blonde, rosy cheeks, amber eyes, hair still fastened back in a ribbon the way she had always worn it since she was a child. He could just barely make out the pretty ends of it behind her ears for it being concealed by the hood on the cloak she wore. She was in the back corner, hiding amongst the commoners, shrouded in layers of plain grey fabric, and currently holding a handkerchief to her face to dry her tears.

"Alma!" Delita wanted to cry, but did not, for such an outburst would certainly reveal his disinterest in his wife's funeral. Yet he could not tear his eyes away from her, much as he wanted to return to staring blankly forward, feigning shock. The truth was that now he did feel genuine shock, shock and elation at the sight of the girl, for wherever she was, her brother could not be too far off.

Her eyes met his, and she abruptly averted her gaze, tilting her head downwards. Still Delita did not look away and he watched as she put her hands together in a brief silent prayer, then excused herself, moving down the pew, passing over those between herself and the aisle and finally exciting through a side door, so as not to disturb the congregation with the light that would be admitted by opening the main doors. He had to follow her. He could not lose this opportunity to get to Ramza. He flung his face forwards into his hands and pretended to sob.

"My liege," Orran said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "We are all most grieved upon your loss. Myself can only imagine "

"I must go, Orran," Delita interjected. "I must…I simply…I just cannot stay another moment."

"Delita?" Valmafra asked.

But Delita left her no time to question him. He rose to his feet, face still buried in his hands to conceal the fact that he was not actually crying, and bolted for that same door through which Alma had exited, seemingly spurred by his unmanageable grief, but truthfully motivated by his wish to catch up to the girl who had so abruptly left not two minutes before him.

---

The sound was abysmal. He recalled often observing that it was much improved upon by the presence of a second whistle, but it seemed if he attempted to harmonize with her, the results would be downright cacophonous. But she was pleased with herself. He could see it in the way her eyebrows lifted, erasing her customary look of woe, and even in the darkness, broken only by starlight and the dull glow torches cradled in sconces on the courtyard inner wall, he thought he could see some rosiness appear in her thin, pallid cheeks.

"I did it!" she exclaimed.

He laughed. She laughed too and it occurred to him that he ought to be relieved, for she might have taken offense to his chortling at her glee. Yet he could not help himself for he imagined that he had not expressed such candid, unabashed delight since he was a child. Even so, he could not recall ever feeling so accomplished by way of such a small feat. Such sentiment was reserved for those who did not carry the burden of poverty, for blowing tuneless melodies upon a blade of grass could hardly improve one's lot in life.

There was a time though when Tietra had looked so joyful. He was almost certain of it, though he could not quite place the memory. But he could see her eyes, dark and wide with satisfied surprise, as frustration finally yielded way to success.

_Sister… _Instinctively, he touched his hand to her locket. The silver heart shifted and reflected a lonely shimmer of moonlight.

"What's that?" Ovelia asked. Her eyes were on the necklace.

"Oh, this?" Delita asked, lifting the chain away from his body that she might see it better.

She learned in to oberserve. "A pendant?"

It was true enough and he supposed he was glad she had not noticed how very sentimental the trinket might be. The locket was a gift from Lord Barbaneth, which Tietra had received not long before her leaving for her first season away at school. Alma had an identical one. They had been empty at the time, Barbaneth hoping that the girls would someday choose for themselves what they most wished to conceal in them, but on the morning of their departure Dycedarg insisted they fill them with poison powder in case they should ever encounter threatening persons in their travels. The poison was gone by the time he buried her. Delita hoped that perhaps she might have used it against one of her captors, but knew that she more likely had disposed of it long before. She would never have had the heart to use it.

"I keep it as a remembrance of my sister, Tietra. She...she was caught up in this fighting and died," he said, turning away and closing his hand around the object. Though his sister may never have settled on what she wished to keep in it, he did not suffer from such indecision. But he was not about to reveal its contents to Ovelia, nor to anyone else for that matter.

"I'm sorry," the princess said simply. He wondered if she did realize that it was a locket about his neck. Probably, for though she was horribly abused and manipulated, she was not dumb. She was thoughtful and considerate though and likely feigned ignorance for his sake, so that he would not have to elaborate upon it.

Poor Ovelia! She was uncommonly empathetic, too caught up in dissecting the feelings of others to think anything of her own. So very like his sister, who'd pretended to be happy so as not to offend the generosity of those who provided for her. She'd been so busy fretting over their perception that she may not have even realized how miserable she was.

_It was always an act. We danced to their tune, always afraid that we would misstep and be cast aside, labled ingrates. _Anger growing, he clenched his fist. "She died for the nobility's convenience. They used her and cast her away, and for that I cannot forgive them."

His thoughts returned to Ovelia and he told her so. "I shall not let them deal to you the same fate they dealt to her. I will protect you from aught and all who would use you."

It was a claim he meant to make good upon, and also not the first time he'd said it. A month prior, when first they had come to Zeltennia, Ovelia had sat in utter misery amongst the ruins of a church. She'd been gone for hours, Goltanna's men searching frantically for her for fear that she might be assassinated whilst out of their site, when he stumbled upon her. He was probably the only person in the castle not intentionally looking for the princess, yet his aimless wanderings had led him to her. She clearly wished to remain undisturbed, and he could not blame her, for she had much to think on. Still he made his presence known to her and when she responded venomously to his inquiry after her mood, he understood the depth of her suffering.

She said she could see no value in her living. After all she was not the princess she was supposed to be. Just a girl, placed in a vacant cradle to hide the death of the true princess, so that conspirators might use her to usurp the unpopular queen. She was raised in monasteries, kept locked away from all of the turmoil of courtly living, never wielding any of the power or influence her imposed station was supposed to afford her. Larg wanted her out of the way so that she might never take an interest in such matters; Goltanna saw her always being away as an opportunity to capitalize on a neutral power. She'd served her purpose well, looking a princess and possessing all of her associated potential but completely incapable of harnessing it on her own; she was the puppet of whoever gained her allegiance.

They were kindred spirits, he and Ovelia. She a nobody made up to be a princess, he similarly fashioned into an aristocrat. So he had decided to rescue her, to eradicate all of the corruption within the kingdom, to eliminate everyone with any semblance of power if need be, start anew. All that would remain would be a blank canvas where Ovelia might wield the power that was due to her. After all, she was now theoretically queen.

"Delia…Thank you," Ovelia said.

She moved closer to him, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. It was a tender gesture, and a satisfying one. He had resolved to build a kingdom for her to reign. Surely she would need a king to rule by her side; he intended to be that king. So long as he was helping her, he saw no harm in helping himself, for what better way to ensure her well being than to be in the highest position of authority? If he was not her equal then he could not protect her, nor any others who might be used by those of greater fortune than themselves.

She leaned in closer and kissed him. A chaste little kiss, but on the lips, and unexpectedly bold. She veritably jumped away from him, blushing, head turned down in shame.

"Forgive me!" she pleaded, keeping her eyes focused on the pointy toes of her leather slippers. "I should not have been so presumptuous."

He stepped towards her, pulled her close, and kissed her back, just as chastely, just as briefly. And he felt nothing. He kissed her again, this time more ardently, his tongue passing briefly between her lightly parted lips. Still nothing. He was going through the motions, making a display of affection without sincerity or sensation.

She stepped away from him, her blushing intensified to a heated red. It was the way Ramza looked when he kissed him, the way one should look when being kissed. But while seeing Ramza's flushed and bashful countenance fortified Delita's desire for him, seeing Ovelia so hardly had the same effect. Indeed, it only made him more aware of the fact that much as he might try, he did not want her. Not as a man should want the woman he intended to marry.

"I…I should get to bed," she stammered. "It's, uh…late."

"Aye," Delita agreed, stepping closer to her again and again he kissed her. He could sense the excitement in her body. "Good night then."

"Y-yes," she managed. She stood for one more long moment staring at him, looking positively bewildered but also ecstatic. Then, with a little shake of her head, she turned about and entered the castle.

What sorry fools they were, Ovelia for believing that Delita loved her and he for believing that he could do so. She was supposed to be his savior every bit as much as he intended to be hers. It was a beautiful plan; he would save her from those who wished her harm and she would save him from wanting things he could not have, then some day, when they had both saved each other, they would reign side by side over a new kingdom where all were treated as equals and every law was tempered by the bond of their love.

But there would be no such connection between them. On the day he swore to build Ovelia her new kingdom, he really had meant for such joy to come to pass, and ostensibly, everything still would. He would protect her, stamp out all of the corruption amongst the artisocracy and leave nothing but a blameless infant kingdom. He would marry her; he had clearly already succeeded in securing her affections. He would be king and together they would shape their new kingdom into that paradise that each of them so longed for. But he would never love her. One could not simply decide whom they were going to love and then make it so. Not when such an one was already in love with somebody else.

Ovelia would never be enough. He had hoped that fondness for her might replace the passion he had for Ramza, yet knew it would not. He was setting himself up to gain everything he ever wanted except the very thing that had spurred his longing for everything else. Though he thought that until the day he died he would swear it was Tietra's death that propelled his conquest, he always knew it was Ramza. And he would have fortune, land and title to surpass his beloved's, yet he could no more have him then than he could right now, for he would have a wife, and a duty to honor his union with her. And had he not had enough of secret midnight trysts?

Later that night, he encountered Ovelia in a corridor in the residential east wing of the castle. To assuage her embarrassed blushing, he casually asked her whom exactly it was who had endeavored to teach her to play the grass whistle so many years before. She told him it was Alma Beoulve and wondered aloud at her welfare. Delita assured her that, though he was not acquainted her, she must be well, for such was the usual state for girls of good fortune. When she agreed, bade him goodnight once more, and he could stop pretending not to know the person who'd once been like a second sister to him, he began to cry both because Alma's fate lay in the hands of the Templar, the most corrupt and conniving power in all of Ivalice, and because he would do nothing about it. He knew he could, for he was thought to be an ally to her captors and he might persuade them to let him near enough to rescue her. But then they would discover his unfaithfulness and he would lose his shot at the throne.

Instead Ramza would save her. Or he would die trying. This made him cry all the more.

---

When he was certain he was out of earshot, he called out to her. "Alma! Alma!" he repeated, but to no avail. She made no reply. He did not even know if he followed her, for once she had fled the church he had no means of knowing in which direction she had run. None would have thought to stop her and inquire as to her business, for all were welcome to attend the queen's funeral, and she would have been inspected by soldiers before being admitted to insure that she was unarmed. If someone saw her going, they would think her a harmless common girl, spurred by grief, no doubt inflicted by a simple mind, to leave prematurely and in a hurry. But Alma was no commoner, and definitely no simpleton.

"Alma!" he cried once more. Only the wind rustling in the tree branches answered him.

And the trees were everywhere. He could hardly recall there ever being so many trees anywhere near the castle at Zeltennia. Trees, fallen leaves and the gentle sound of a running stream confronted him from every angle and he was vaguely aware of a roar of thunder, dulled by distance. In his haste he had run blindly forward in a seemingly random direction, with no notion of where Alma had gone to, nor whether or not he followed her. Still he pressed on, irrespective of the fact that he had no idea where he was, and brashly ignoring the threat of a thunderstorm.

It was unusually chill for so late into the cycle of Taurus. Or was it? Delita had never spent an uninterrupted year in Zeltennia and therefore could make no accurate estimation as to its typical weather patterns. Eagrosse had always been in full bloom by now, but Zeltennia was further north, and perhaps spring took longer to revive the barren trees than it did out west. Though similar, the climate was not identical throughout all of Ivlaice. Or was it? Delita could not say. Though he had been to most of the kingdom's territories in the past three years, it had always been in battle, and if not, some other war-related errantry, and he had taken little note of the weather. It was a pity really, to recall how he had seen so much, yet absorbed so little. As a small child living in a three-room farmhouse, he would have scarcely dreamed of living a life as adventurous and far reaching as the one he'd recently led.

Dried, dead leaves crunched beneath his feet. He was certain they should all be gone by now, though of course, unlike the impeccable gardens at Zeltennia, this forest was not subject to meticulous landscaping. And there were no forests like this one in Eagrosse so perhaps leaves stayed on forest paths unless displaced by man and Delita simply did not know it. He trod along the unkempt path, increasingly aware of the fact the wind had picked up, now whipping about his ears and inciting more than a gentle rustling amongst the tree branches. The sky turned dark grey, tinged with a frightening greenness, and there was a rumble of thunder in the distance. It seemed that the sky would open up in a flourish of rain and lightning at any moment, but this did naught to deter Delita from his imagined pursuit.

Not long after, an encounter with a fast flowing stream forced him to stop and consider his errand. Very likely the stream was not above knee deep and he could have easily passed through it, but it was not something to be forded without a moment's pause. So he stopped walking and thought about the stream, about whether or not he ought to accept it as an end to his search, or if he should try and find a way around it or discover some more inventive means of crossing it, lest it should prove deeper than he imagined.

His eyes fixed on the water, speeding heartily away from an unknown source to an equally unknown end. If there were fish or tadpoles or any other form of aquatic life within, he could not see them, for the speed of the water fighting against the bevy of rocks within it created cloudy white rapids. Contented that nothing should be gained by merely looking at the thing, his gaze shifted to the other bank and found what he was looking for.

It was a miracle. There stood Alma, still hidden in her dark green cloak, calmly loosing the rope that tethered a chocobo to a tree. Once more Delita fought the urge to cry out to her, now fearing that he might alarm and cause her to flee from him again. Now he _had_ to cross the stream, and quickly, for soon Alma could be on the back of a chocobo and riding away from him, possibly forever. His decision made, he waded boldly forward into the water.

The splash of his feet breaking the water's surface alerted Alma to his presence. She turned abruptly to face him, the rapidity of the motion causing her hood to fall from her head and expose her bountiful golden waves of hair. She gasped, said nothing, and then stood very still, eyes locking with Delita's. He dared not move and so they remained staring at one another in silence, the water tugging at Delita's ankles, encouraging them to give out from underneath him.

"Delita," she said finally, or at least she seemed to say. Her mouth went through all the motions of pronouncing his name, but he could not hear her.

"Alma," he said loudly now, but not frantically. He advanced steadily towards the opposite bank. She held still, yet he still sensed that she, like a startled doe, might flee at any moment. "Alma," he repeated. His teeth chattered as the icy water had now reached his knees and poured down the insides of his light summer boots. "Alma you're alive."

He had now reached the shore, though Alma still stood several yards away, unflinching, her one hand tightly grasping the tether. He continued his approach. Everything in him wanted to charge the girl and capture her within his embrace before she could escape, but he knew we was not currently strong enough to retain her should she endeavor to break free. How long it had been since he'd beheld her! Unlike her brother in whom Delita had witnessed a gradual evolution from frail, wide-eyed youth to hardened but hopeful hero, Alma's change seemed to be instantaneous. Granted he had not seen her at length since before the death of his sister over four years ago, but these years of being abused in the church's conquest for power had done much to alter her. She had never been a slip of a girl, but her soft, round features were now strong and determined. Her jaw-line was harsher, her shoulders broader, and her stance firm and tall as the bravest of knights. But her eyes, though they were red with tears, were still wide and hopeful. Just like Ramza.

She took a step away from him, and Delita stopped. He advanced another step and she in turn retreated.

"Alma don't go," he urged. "You have naught to fear from me!"

She shut her eyes tightly and shook her head. "How I wish that might be true." She turned about and worked frantically to unravel the knot in the rope that bound her chocobo.

"Alma stop!" he cried, but it was too late; she had already succeeded in loosing the knot and her foot was in the stirrup of her saddle. She did not even glance back at him as she spurred the beast forward.

He ran. He knew he could not catch her, but he pressed on regardless. The weight of his wet boots slowed him down, and each step grew increasingly laborious as they stuck to the quickly moistening ground. It was raining, and not just a pleasant spring shower, but sharp, stinging drops that battered with a rebounding splash against anything that stood between them and the ground. Delita could now hardly see his quarry for the thickness of the rain. If she were even still close enough to be seen. He could make out a vague figure that might have been her, for it was rapidly escaping him, but he did not know for certain. But he kept running though his body ached and his breath shortened and he did not know to what end he might be traversing. He had to chase her for as long as he possibly could, had to ascertain some hint as to her whereabouts. And he could think of nothing to do but follow her.

Suddenly he found himself face to face with soaked, dead leaves and dirt. He had fallen, but he had not tripped. His body had given up. Much as he wanted to continue his pursuit, his weakened body was incapable of it.

"Alma!" he cried helplessly. His voice was hoarse and thin. "Alma!" he repeated. But he knew she was already long gone. He cried out to her one last time and then could do nothing but lie, miserable and exhausted, upon the cold, wet earth and pray that someone might find him there before he was drowned or washed away.

---

"Then our paths part once again." He hoped his voice betrayed none of his sorrow.

Ramza looked at him longingly. "Be safe, Delita."

"And you, Ramza."

He wasn't sure who stepped towards whom. Maybe they had both moved and met somewhere in the middle, but their hands were suddenly grasped in a firm handshake. It was not what he wanted, but he would have to be satisfied. Then, without another word, Ramza was gone.

"You mean to let him go?" Valmafra asked.

"He acts as I expected he would," Delita said with expertly feigned indifference.

Valmafra shook her head disapprovingly. "Even your friends are only pieces to be played."

He turned violently to her and it took all of his reserved willpower to resist the urge to throttle her. "Mind you words!" he shouted. "You know not what you say!"

She shrugged, her indifference likely genuine. "Such outbursts ill become a man."

"Haven't you somewhere else to be?" he spat, knowing that if she remained his hands might yet find purchase on her throat. Thankfully she turned and left him, for he had no real desire to kill her, despite the fact that presently he thought he wanted to.

The nerve of the woman! How dare she presume to know his intentions towards Ramza? True enough, he _did_ use him in a sense, for he saw no better means by which to bring down the Church, and Ramza realistically might have to do just that in order to rescue his sister. But Delita wanted her safe almost as much as her brother did and it was not as if _he_ had sent the Templar to kidnap her; she'd gotten herself into that mess when she and Ramza had stormed Orbonne in search of the Virgo Stone.

And it was only with great pain that he had consented to allow himself to let Ramza charge into such peril. He wanted to stop him, but it was much easier to let him go. His love for his sister would never permit him to sit idly by while she was in danger and Delita was certain that there was no other more qualified to save her. Ramza had already survived many encounters that for one less skilled and willful would have been fatal. If anyone had a chance of triumphing over an onslaught of ancient, evil forces, it was Ramza.

Delita told himself there could be no stopping him. Not even his love for his childhood friend could halt his pursuit. Which is why he had decided to ease their parting or rather to ensure that Ramza's affections did not interfere with his objective.

He had asked Delita to join him, no, to fight beside him as his equal. Tempting though the offer was, Delita knew he must refuse it, or else undo all that he had done to advance himself towards the throne. Waging separate wars, he against the nobility and Ramza against the Church, they would cover more ground and ultimately achieve their common goal: a kingdom at peace.

He might have told Ramza this in his refusal. Instead he chose to say, "She needs me - far too much to leave her now."

"The princess?" Ramza had asked.

"Prince or princess, the Church cares not," Delita said. "It craves only power. A puppet state, with the High Confessor at its strings. This is their grand plan for Ivalice."

"And you?" Ramza asked. Delita could hear the heels of his greaves scraping against the floor. "Do you not use Ovelia to fulfill your own ambition?"

Delita thought on his reply. On the one hand it was true, for how better to ensure his rise to power than to marry a queen, but on the other hand he was also ensuring the continued safety and prosperity of a most grievously used young woman. "I cannot say," he said truthfully. "I am only sure of this. To save her life I would gladly give my own."

That part was a lie, but a necessary one. It would do Ramza no good imagine a happy ending to their story. Even were they both to win their respective fights, there could be little hope of that. So Delita decided it was best to make Ramza believe he no longer loved him, or maybe never loved him at all, and he should linger no longer in his presence. He would pretend to love Ovelia and Ramza's heart would be broken. All that should remain then was sadness and brotherly love for Alma ranking first in his heart.

Delita hated to do it but knew that as Ramza painfully managed tell him that he did not find his declaration of love for the princess to be strange and that he understood only too well, he knew he had succeeded.

Yet he continued to prove himself a loyal friend. More than loyal. He'd had no reason to kill Confessor Zalmour, no desire to do so. The poor bastard was just as used and manipulated as Ovelia. He knew nothing of the Church's plot and wholeheartedly trusted all of those who held his unseen puppet strings. But he'd disovered them together, found Delita conversing with a heretic and making no move to kill or capture him. A man truly loyal to the Church would never have done that! And so he learned Delita's true nature. That is why he had to die.

They'd stood side by side, poised for a battle that Ramza did want to fight. Delita had turned to him, the panic with which he spoke to convey the gravity of the situation all too real. "He has seen me," he'd said. "He must not live to tell of it! We must fight them, Ramza!"

Ever the kind soul, Ramza said, "They know nothing of the High Confessor's plot. They serve him blindly. If we explain what has happened, they may well listen."

"Hear your words, Ramza!" Delita cried. "Reasoning with their ilk is folly, even you must see this. But you have leave to try!"

Ramza had looked at him for a moment, studying him. His expression shifted to one of sadness, understanding. And that was the end of it. Though he might act as if he still hoped to reason with the confessor, Delita knew that, in the end, he would kill him, possibly before Delita even got close enough to deal him a single blow. Because behind the sadness was the love that compelled him to act against his better judgment. Ramza had no choice but to kill the confessor because Delita had asked him to do it. As Delita falsely claimed he would give his life to save Ovelia's, Ramza truthfully would have given his to save Delita's.

The battle was won quickly; Zalmour's accompanying knights were hardly a match for the combined swordsmanship of Delita and Ovelia's former guard Agrias. Ramza had scaled the tower atop which Zalmour had positioned himself with alarming speed, so much that Delita had found himself distracted by wondering at the young man's whereabouts at which point he was temporarily stilled by a mystic's hesitation charm then victim to a blow from the remaining knight. He soon recovered and slew the knight, but doubled over onto his knees, surprised at the pain from the injury he'd sustained. Ramza was almost instantly at his side, a shot fired from the weapon of one of his comrades ending the confessor's life.

Ramza helped Delita shift to sit, though he only managed to stay upright with the aid of Ramza's arm. They were soon joined by a third party, a girl, no a young woman, with thick blonde hair pouring out from beneath her white hood. She stood close by, softly chanting an incantation, and as the soft white light washed over him, curing his wounds, Delita swore he recognized her voice. It was small, unassuming, and formerly timid he thought, though there was hardly a trace of that now.

He looked at her again and instantly knew her. It was Syndonny, that same girl who had once been a chemist in their scouting party from the Akademy. Though her hair had grown longer and her demeanor more poised, he still recognized her. So she had remained loyal to Ramza throughout all of this. Delita quickly glanced at him to see if he was looking at her. She had become quite lovely over the course of two years now that she'd outgrown girlish silliness and he could not help but feel a familiar sting of jealousy at the idea of her being Ramza's constant companion. But his eyes were downcast, the hand of his free arm clutching the grass; apparently he had suffered some injuries too and in typical Ramza fashion was trying with limited success to conceal his pain.

Soon enough they were both fully healed and on their feet and talking of where Ramza would go next. How convenient it was that Valmafra should appear with the news that Count Orlandeau, the very man Ramza had thought to pursue in coming to Zeltennia, had recently departed. Thus he and Delita would again have to go their separate ways, the latter left with nothing but the lingering sensation of Ramza's hand clasping his and a sinking feeling that that would be the extent of any future contact between them. If there ever was any future contact between them, and Delita knew that there was a very real possibility that there would not be.

He sighed heavily, now forgetting how angry he was with Valmafra. It didn't matter what she thought. It was almost better she believed he used Ramza as a pawn in his game of thrones and felt no remorse. Let her go on thinking it and let his constant worrying pass unknown. His sister was dead; Ramza and Alma were the only people he truly cared about left in the world. Not a day went by that he did not think of them and fear that he might hear of their untimely deaths. But he could not help them and while that truth was killing him, there was no need for anyone else to know it. From Valmafra's perspective, he was letting them fall into the clutches of the Church and that is exactly how it needed to be.

_Teitra…watch over them, _Delita prayed. _Keep them safe._ His hand went to his chest to touch her locket. But there was nothing there.

He kicked the ground fiercely, bringing up a chunk of earth and grass. How could he have lost it? He searched frantically, dropping to his hands and knees, crawling about, surveying the surrounding area. But he found nothing but trimmed grass and bluebells. He moved onto another area with identical results. Then another, and another, but still his efforts yielded no success.

_This is ridiculous, _he thought. _It could be anywhere. Who knows when I lost it. It may yet be in the church._ But somehow he knew it wasn't. No it couldn't be, for he would have heard it fall from his neck and hit the floor, would have noticed the loss of the weight of it. He must have lost it in the midst of battle.

He gave the ground another kick, secretly hoping he might hear the satisfying chink of his metal clad toe rebounding off the little silver heart, but there was only the dull thud of it colliding with the lonely ground. Lonely, save for the fact that it was still littered with the blood and bodies of Zalmour and his party. Delita supposed he'd have to provide some explanation for that. He could always tell Goltanna that he discovered the Church was working against him, or tell the High Confessor that Zalmour had sought to side with Goltanna and ceased to reamin neutral as the Church had ostensibly done. Or he could blame it on Ramza, for the Church already wanted his head and blaming him for the death of a clergyman would place him in no greater peril.

Ramza...how Delita longed for him to comfort him right now! Losing the locket felt like losing Tietra all over again. When she had first fallen into the clutches of those who did not actually cause but would forever be associated wit her death, Delita had found solace in the young nobleman's arms. And so much more…

The stench of blood on the corpses reminded Delita of their presense. He would deal with them later. Right now he would find Valmafra; she was no Ramza but she was generally willing and would have to do.

---

He was in his bed again his covers pulled all the way up to his neck. And there were more of them than usual, the traditional silk coverlet not missing, but covered by a heavy woolen blanket. He was warm, too warm to be comfortable really, and unsure as to how he had ended up in such a state. It had happened again; he had allowed himself to slip into darkness and, like before, someone had rescued him. It was surely a sign that he was not yet meant to die. He turned his head and found that this time it was Valmafra who watched over him, though she stood in the window gazing out on the castle gardens beneath her.

"Valmafa," he said weakly. By now he should have expected the level of difficulty he found in speaking, but he remained surprised. She did not turn. "Valmafra," he repeated, thinking she had not heard him, yet she still remained motionless.

"Yes Delita, it is I," she replied, ever fixed on the window. "You are awake," she observed.

"Valmafra," he said again, his voice sounding more tender than he had intended due to hoarseness, though he _had_ meant to speak gently. "Was it you who rescued me?" he asked. She seemed a logical choice, as she had observed his hasty exit from the church and expressed her surprise at it. It was very likely that she had attempted to follow him, and ultimately, succeeded.

She spun to face him, her countenance dull, unreadable. "It was not," she answered then quickly added, "But you should continue to rest Delita, and regain your strength. I fear you are very unwell indeed."

Curious though he was at her deflection of the question, he instead asked, "Unwell? More so than I was?"

"You were recovering," she said flatly. "Yet you chose to run off, being unfit to run, and in the rain no less, and so now I am afraid you are quite ill."

Delita coughed, harshly. Yes it was painful, but there was no sign of blood, so he had to assume that his lungs had healed. "It is but a cold," he protested.

"Yes, in one who's ability to fight sickness is questionable at present," said she. "We've no idea whether or not your body will expel this. Medicine alone cannot a disease cure."

She had a point. Many was the nobleman who had succumbed to the plague even though he was treated with the best medicines available. But he was the king! Surely in addition to the medicine, he should have the chemists who created it and the most accomplished white mages in the land. "Valmafra, do not talk such nonsense," Delita scolded. "I shall be well in less than a fortnight. Just see to it that I am well tended to."

"We shall," she agreed. "You have already been visited by the royal physician today, and he has made arrangements for others to come calling on you to appraise your condition. I pray that they find reason to hope." She bit the corner of her bottom lip and cast her eyes downward.

Was she concerned about him? It was unlike her to betray emotion so. Delita wasn't entirely sure whether she even experienced emotion in the way normal people did, so long had she been a puppet of the church; they had always dictated what she was to think and feel. Though as of late, being several months free of their reign, she had taken on a more compassionate, feminine nature. She certainly seemed to take a liking to Orran, and it was no secret that she had been his greatest comfort since the death of his father.

"Thank you," Delita said finally, unsure of how to react to her own uncertainty. "I too hope they will not pronounce me a dead man."

At this she laughed, and though he knew it was a nervous laughter, Delita was glad to see a hint of a smile play across her face. She was unaccustomed to smiling he knew, but ever so lovely when she did. Even cold and tight-lipped she was beautiful, and she had always remained so stoic even when he had made love to her, as he had on occasion when she had been his only consistent companion. But lately her habitual coldness had dissipated and given way to a girl who was learning to feel and happiness seemed to be her first project.

"I must away," Valmafra declared, face grave and troubled again.

"Why such haste?" Delita asked. "Will you not stay while and watch over me until my next caretaker comes?"

"I fear I have stayed too long already," she said.

"What mean you by that?" Delita almost demanded. She was making no sense. True, they had never exactly been friends, for she had long planned to kill him at the slightest sign of betrayal, but they had grown to respect one another, and it was because of that that they both lived today.

"Ovelia is dead Delita," she said flatly. It was hardly a reply to the question at hand.

Delita felt his frustration give way to anger and now verily demanded. "And what is it that you imply by saying such?"

"Such a fate may soon be yours as well," she continued, but her voice wavered. Was she about to cry?

What was she getting at? Ovelia was dead, impending tears, his death looming over his head; was she really so saddened by all of this? She had barely known Ovelia, and had primarily sought to use her as a piece of the church's plot. She could not possibly have come to care for her so quickly! Valmafra, who until a few months ago had not seemed to care for anyone, sobbing over a dead girl with whom she had spoken at length but a dozen times? The thought was absurd!

He was plagued simultaneously by another fit of coughing and the fact that he simply could not figure out what was the matter with her. He had always fancied himself adept at reading people, but in all his time of knowing her, he never quite got Valmafra. Then again, he had never tried to understand her until today.

Content that meditating on her behavior would yield no satisfying result, he said, "I do not understand. Have I upset you?" There seemed no other explanation. She had been downright cheerful by her standards until the day of Ovelia's death and now in his presence all she could do was mope, sigh and lurk in windows.

A chilling thought hit him. Did she know? It was an undeniable possibility, for Valmafra had seen first hand how he had capitalized on peoples' power and abused their trust.

"No Delita, it is I who have brought about mine own suffering," she protested, quelling his fears.

"Then?" He'd been bewildered to a point of ineloquence.

She replied, "I must leave you for I cannot risk contracting your illness."

"Contracting my illness?"

"Yes," Valmfra answered. "Delita," she began, her voice wavering again, but her determination shone through and she continued, "I am with child."

He was speechless. Valmafra former loyal servant and assassin of the Church of Glabados was going to be a mother. _Yet why should this matter to me?_ Delita thought. _Unless . . . _Unless the baby was his. It was brilliant. Here stood a woman who delivered to him the news that he might soon be in his grave, but that all was not lost, for she carried in her womb an heir to the throne of Ivalice, for a king's bastard child was better than no child at all. There would be no question of succession; the people loved their king and would gladly honor his offspring's right to the throne, he was sure of it. True the baby might have to be crowned sovereign not long after its birth, but Orran could serve as regent and it was unlikely the child could find a better keeper than Valmafra.

"These are glad tidings," Delita said finally. "They bode well for Ivalice."

"I too do not wish to live through another battle for succession," Valmafra said, tone offering no suggestion that she shared in Delita's joy. "I do not know if I could bear to see the kingdom divided once again. But Delita, I must tell you that my news is not so cheering as you imagine. Though at first I had thought–"

"The child is not mine, am I right?" Delita asked, cutting her off.

She nodded slowly. "Correct." She moved closer to him. "At first, I too rejoiced that it might be. Not for myself, but for Ivalice. But soon I came to my senses and realized this was not possible."

There was no arguing with fact. Of course the child was not his, how could he have been so foolish as to think so? At least three months had passed since he and Valmafra had last made love, and one could hardly call it that, as it was completely devoid of any feeling other than carnal desire. She would have known she was pregnant for a least a month and would have begun to show signs of her condition. But here she stood, trim as ever, and his burden, the fear of leaving an heirless kingdom, remained.

"Then I suppose you wish also to inform me of your plans to marry the father?" Delita asked gloomily. He wanted to be spiteful, but found he couldn't.

"We have no such plans at present," Valmafra replied. "But yes, Orran and I shall be married in due time."

"And why is it you tell me all of this?"

"I did want the child to be yours. Though I bear no love for you, it would have meant some security for the future of Ivalice. You must believe me Delita."

He did; her voice was painfully sincere. He slowly nodded his affirmation. "Still," he persisted, "I know not why you have told me."

"Well," she began softly, "I suppose it is because, in a strange sort of way, I consider you my friend. 'Twas you who freed me from the church's service and for that I shall be always grateful. And time it was that you and I would confide in one another, seldom thought that may have been. For we had no one else, and sometimes even the most secretive must reveal some of their secrets. So I tell you this because, I have no one else to tell. No parents, no sisters, no kin of any kind, no friends from my girlhood. Only you, a man I once fought alongside and who saved my life."

Delita said nothing. So that was that. She was his friend. She, who had been at his side almost every step of the way as he schemed and fought to attain the throne, still considered him worthy of friendship. At least he knew if he did die then someone who knew him as more than just the idyllic hero-king would mourn him, at least a little bit.

"I must go now," she said and made for the door.

"Valmafra wait," Delita called. She stopped and faced him, looking stoic, but not somber. Sharing her secret seemed to have driven the sadness out of her. "I have heard your confession, and I am glad for you," he continued. "Now, as a friend, will you not tell me who it was that did recall me from the woods?"

She hesitated. She had avoided answering the question before, so he was hardly surprised, but _why _she was so reluctant to answer could not tell. Even in the very moment he thought he'd figured her out, she still found ways to elude him. Just as he had accepted that he would receive no response, she answered. "It was Alma Beoulve."

"Alma!" he gasped, the sudden intake of air inducing another bout of coughing. When it has subsided he continued, voice more hoarse than ever, "Alma rescued me? Where has she gone?"

"I know not Delita," Valmafra said regretfully. "When Orran and I returned to the castle to assemble a search party following your disappearance from the funeral, she was waiting there, soaked through, with you unconscious and draped over the back of her chocobo. She said naught of where she had come from, or where she was going, only that she'd discovered you in the woods and hoped it was not too late to save you."

"And you did not insist she stay?" Delita asked.

"She is a dead girl," Valamfra replied. "Surely if she wished for any to know of her survival, she would have made it known. She was fortunate enough to have not been recognized by any of the castle guards. If she stayed, surely she would have been discovered."

_I do not understand_, Delita thought. _Why should she wish to remain so elusive?_ Was that why she had run from him? Because she feared that he would reveal the tragic end of the Beoulve line to be a fallacy?

Valmafra spoke again. "I did not wish to tell you for I feared it would upset you. But take heart in knowing that I have now seen her twice and am certain that Alma Beoulve lives."

"Thank you Valmafra," Delita said calmly. "Now leave me and rest so that you might be spared my sickness and protect your child."

"Yes Delita," Valmafra agreed. "You rest yourself. Someone should hasten and attend to you presently."

Even before she was gone Delita has forgotten her. His thoughts were now all of Alma. Why did she wish to remain anonymous? What was there to gain from living a life wherein no one knew you lived? True he had done it once himself, but then he had been a mere peasant and he had not so much been dead to the world as he had been lost to those few who knew him. And he had lost nothing, for he had nothing in life and therefore nothing to lose in death. But Alma had everything, money, status, an estate. True, two thirds of her brothers had died in shame, Dycedarg a traitor and Ramza a heretic, but all of that was past now and even if the nobility did not rejoice in learning that the Beoulve family was not extinct, as he suspected they would, Delita was king and would see to it that she retained all that she was rightfully due.

And also, Ramza wasn't dead. Surely Alma knew where he was. And wasn't that the real reason why he wanted to catch her? She was his only hope of gaining the only thing he wanted which he did not have. Before the church, the Southern Sky, the title, the kingdom, the only thing he was sure he had wanted was Ramza.

Delita relaxed against the pillows and shut his eyes and hoped then when he opened them, Ramza would be there.

* * *

NOTES: Yeah…this has been for months and I just got too caught up in real life to edit and post it. SO sorry for the delay. I promise I am hard at work on Part III! Hopefully it won't take me another 4 months to get around to posting it :-P.


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